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Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10)
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9.3
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(24
votes)
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Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are 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.
John Donne
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Read poems about / on: sleep, death, fate, war, sonnet
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John Donne
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Virginia Prickett
(5/16/2006 3:28:00 PM) |
This powerdul poem was the underlying text of the recent Pulitzer Prize winner for the play, 'Wit' which dealt with a wintry academic scholar facing death with only the words of John Done's Holy Sonnets as comfort.
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