Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
John Donne (1572-1631).
In loving memory of my father, who died on this day in 2000.
Mine died a year and six days ago. Thanks for the poem, it’s bold and beautiful. I didn’t post, but re-read, six days ago, another great poem, Dylan Thomas’ And Death Shall Have No Dominion. So be it.
p.s.: Unfortunately Donne couldn’t leave any recordings. But Thomas can still be heard reading his poem, and man, is it powerful!