The Sun Rising, by John Donne

John Donne's elaborate conceits are known for going beyond the simplistic metaphors of most love poetry, but they are at their best when, as here, they're not just intelligent symbolism but relevant, poignant embodiments of the feeling being experienced. As relevant today as it was 400 years ago, this poem captures that mix of playfullness and seriousness peculiar to the lover. Busy old fool, unruly Sun, 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 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 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 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; compared to this, All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine 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 center is, these walls thy sphere. BOTH TH' INDIAS: The East (spice) and West (mine) Indies. Thanks for listening! Visit the podcast at http://poetryalive.podomatic.com We'd love to hear from you, e-mail comments and suggestions to [email protected]. If you've got a poem you'd like to hear, or even better, to read, let us know!