POETRY: Death by John Donne

Death by John Donne

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 can’st 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 to 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 poison and charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than they stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more. Death, thou shalt die!

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