Uploaded on August 12, 2011
Death be not proud, though some have callëd 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 sicknesses dwell,
and poppy, or 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.
—John Donne
The Giant Book of Poetry
edited by William H. Roetzheim
08.12.2023: Is insisting that, if you’re good enough, you’ll go to heaven and enjoy eternal life really a defeat of death, or is it an effort to not accept the reality of death, which fills most of us with terror because it’s the ultimate unknown?