St.Lucy's day downunder is, of course, the longest day of the year.
A great poem, this one, possibly written after his wife Anne's death in 1617, but no one knows for sure.
Tim, in the realm of prosodic possibility, there is not a great deal which has not been donne before.
Thinking of Donne and the depths of northern winter, I recall this passage from his "Ecclogue. 1613. December 26," another one of the rare occasions when he notices the world of Nature, which mostly holds little interest for him.
Unseasonable man, statue of ice,
What could to countries solitude entice
Thee, in this year's cold and decrepit time ?
Nature's instinct draws to the warmer clime
Even smaller birds, who by that courage dare
In numerous fleets sail through their sea, the air.
What delicacy can in fields appear,
Whilst Flora herself doth a frieze jerkin wear ?
Whilst winds do all the trees and hedges strip
Of leaves, to furnish rods enough to whip
Thy madness from thee, and all springs by frost
Have taken cold, and their sweet murmurs lost ...
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