DEATH

DEATH
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 over throw
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 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!