Tuesday, April 06, 2010

Poem of the day

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 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 souls 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 then 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


Blogger Angus said...

Now he would be fun to sit next to at dinner - one of our more interesting poets . Do you remember signing the line on Sunday - 'deaths dark angel sheathes his sword ?'

2:44 pm  
Blogger Eurodog said...

Why the gloom, WW? Ah yes, April is the cruellest month.

7:34 pm  
Blogger Winchester whisperer said...

I don't remember that, Angus! Must have been exhausted by having to arrive so early.

I love TS, ED!

7:44 am  
Blogger Welshcakes Limoncello said...

Love John Donne.

8:09 am  
Blogger Ellee Seymour said...

I really like Donne too, "Busy old fool, unruly sun,"...

1:49 pm  

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