Today is the shortest day & it is also St. Lucy's Day. So for all of you lovers of the metaphysical poets, I thought a little bit of Dr. John Donne might be appropriate:

A Nocturnal Upon St Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest 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 interr'd ; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

There are a load more verses, but I thought I'd spare you.