John Donne

• Witchcraft by a picture
• A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day

Witchcraft by a picture

I fix mine eyes on thine, and there                  
Pity my picture burning in thine eye,
My picture drowned in a transparent tear,
When I look lower I espy;
Hadst thou the wicked skill
By pictures made and marred, to kill,
How many ways mightst thou perform thy will?

But now I have drunk thy sweet salt tears,
And though thou pour more I'll depart;
My picture vanished, vanish fears,
that I can be endamaged by that art;
Though thou retain of me
One picture more, yet that will be
Being in thine own heart, from all malice free.

     Fisso gli occhi nei tuoi e con tristezza
     vi vedo la mia immagine bruciare,
     l'immagine che annega in chiare lacrime
     vedo guardando gli occhi;
     se per magia ti fosse data l'arte
     di uccider con immagin fatte e sfatte,
     quante volte useresti questa astuzia?

     Ormai delle tue lacrime conosco 
     il dolce e il sale, e non mi tratterranno;
     Scomparsa e` la mia immagine, e il timore
     che possa farmi male la tua arte;
     E a te resta di me un'immagin sola
     racchiusa nel tuo cuore,
     priva ormai di malizia.

A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy's Day

'Tis the year's midnight and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
      The sun is spent, and now his flasks
      Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
            The world's whole sap is sunk:
The general balm th'hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interred; yet all these seem to laugh
Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is at the next spring:
      For I am every dead thing,
      In whom love wrought new alchemy,
            For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations and lean emptiness:
He ruined me, and I am rebegot
Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

All others from all things draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
      I by love's limbecke am the grave
      Of all that's nothing. oft a flood
            Have we two wept, and so
Drowned the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else; and often absences
Withdrew our souls and made us carcases.

But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)
Of the first nothing the elixir grown;
      Were I a man, that I were one
      I needs must know; I should prefer,
            If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; yea, plants, yea, stones detest
And love; all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light and body must be here.

But I am none; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
      At this time to the goat is run
      To fetch new lust and give it you,
            Enjoy your summer all;
Since she enjoys her long night's festival
Let me prepare towards her and let me call
This hour her vigil and her eve, since this
Both the year's and the day's deep midnight is.