Thursday, 24 March 2016

The Thursday Poem

Potted Flowers with Books IV
Eric Barjot

Death, Be Not Proud

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go -
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery.
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke.  Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall he no more: Death, thou shalt die.

John Donne
(c June 1572 - 31st March 1631)

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