DEATH
by: John Donne (1573-1631)
- EATH, 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 picture 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 dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
- And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
- And betterr 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!
MORE
POEMS BY JOHN DONNE |
|