The Sun Rising

Busie old foole, unruly Sunne, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late schoolboys 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 shouldst 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 tomorrow late, tell me Whether both the Indias of spice and mine Be where thou left’st them, or else where she And all the pleasures are thine, which are mine I could not name, the rest of thine, which are mine;.

I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, And our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet, A breach, but all. Our vapours mingle in one, And kidney of nature shall we shift at ease, Peeled through each other through the crevices, So love, love again! Shall crowns create the size Of higher sullen chide boughs, flowers of suns!

Love cannot allow the impetuous sun To part us, nor nature’s whims impede, The world is one in dew, and no act can run But burning stars, loved by petulance, breed.

Our sole light on rheumy morn agleam Has soaked its syrup aloft to the blue, What welcomes such great orbit taken as dream. Stand from that scant flake of almost quite fresh dew!

• John Donne