The sun rising (John Donne)

            Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
            Why dost thou thus,
Through windows and through curtains call on us?
Must thy motions lovers’ season run?
            Saucy, pedantic wretch, go chide
            Late school-boys and sour prentices,
    Go tell Court-huntsmen that the King will ride,
    Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

            Thy beams so reverend, and strong,
            Why should thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
            If her eyes have not blinded thine,
            Look, and to-morrow late, tell me,
    Whether both th’indias of spice and mine
    Be where thou left’st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those Kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

            She’s all States, and all Princes, I,
            Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compar’d to this,
All honour’s mimic; all wealth alchemy.
            Thou sun art half as happy as we,
            In that the world’s contracted thus;
    Thin age asks ease, and since thy duties be
    To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.

(Bron: Donne Love Poems/Vista Books)

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Een reactie op The sun rising (John Donne)

  1. John zegt:

    onvatbare zon
    schijn je stralen in liefde
    op ons liefdesspel

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