(iii) |
Death, be not proud, though some have
callèd 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’rt 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.
|
John Donne
| Classic Poems |
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[ Anniversary ] [ Death be not Proud ] [ The Sun Rising ] |
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