A quick pursuit of poesy this week, inspired by the most recent post at my sister site (why are they called that?) Scribbled Poetry, which includes a brief mention of DEATH. New post can be found by clicking this link.
And so here we have some musing upon the subject of Mr Death by John Donne (1572-1631):
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 soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
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 be no more; Death, thou shalt die.