Saint Lucy’s Feast

A commenter from the You Tube version of this lovely holiday says:

The tradition of Lucia in Sweden is a mix of pre-christian and Christan customs. According to the Julian calender, December 13 (Dec 21 in the Gregorian calendar) was the longest night of the year — The Winter Solstice.

When Sweden transfered to the Gregorian calendar in 1753 we kept December 13 as the day to celebrate the night of Lussi. Later on we “imported” Saint Lucia as the bringer of light and incorporated her into our own traditions.

John Donne, by consensus the greatest of the Metaphysical Poets, said it somewhat differently. When I reminded the Baron it was Saint Lucy’s Day, he began to recite Donne’s poem. I asked him to look it up for me (unless of course he wanted to recite it for our readers??).

The poetically impaired (you know who you are) can skip this part:

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s Day, Being the Shortest Day

by John Donne 1572–1631

‘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 interr’d; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar’d 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 ruin’d me, and I am re-begot
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 limbec, am the grave
Of all that’s nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown’d 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 carcasses.

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, 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.

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The Baron says that memorization of this poem (but with the old spellings) was one of the many hurdles of his A-Level examinations. Thus, I mention Saint Lucy to him and get the full and fulsome recitation of Donne’s Nocturnal. He says that Donne’s wife had died and losing her was the source of his suffering in this work.

It is a wonderment to me that the effort to create an aesthetic distance between us and our deepest griefs can provide, briefly, a sense of peace. And so, down through the ages, others come upon those efforts and are comforted in turn.

Be sure to look up the recipe for Saint Lucy’s buns. I can’t bear to do so since we can’t eat them anymore.

Don’t forget the saffron.