Mistake, Marie, this not for psalm nor song,
Nor me for a poet; but some alchemie
Instead, wherein is strain’d my facultie
To make with ink that which the poets throng.
So meek am I and weak, and so oft wrong;
And busie’d by this wretched brewerie,
An insult to a faultless recipe
That to such lesser art can not belong.
And yet, I trust thy sight, so wise and strong;
Thy eye that holds the Philosopher’s Stone,
May touch this baseness and for all atone,
Transmute this lead to gold, this ink to song.
For if my verse were flawless, whiten’d art,
Where were the miracle for thee to take part?
Nay, do not stop at gold, from which, Marie,
The High’st Atonement must us in sin acquit;
But tear apart, flame out, combust amid
This leaden world, and set its ember free.
Beneath this ink is hid a blacker sea,
That drown’d the old world; struck be I and smit
To bleed the world that within me is bid,
To rise thence forth, if thou art here to see.
Be muse therefore! Be muse, be muse to me!
And from this darkest deep make firmament
’Pon which my weak and broken body is spent,
As Prime’ry Matter to start the alchemie.
For if thy sight can make my verses true,
It can make worlds, and make their maker new!
*
* *
Signed Mannheim, August 12th, 2025. Published January 22nd, 2026, the 455th year since the death of John Donne.
