Death Be Not Proud...

By John Donne (1572-1631)

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so
For, those, whom thou thinkst, thou doth overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me
From rest and sleepe, 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, their souls deliveree
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.

"A writer can do with words what Jimi Hendrix does with a guitar."

- Michael Cunningham, author of "The Hours"