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 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.
Poet Bio
More By This Poet
Break of Day
‘Tis true, ‘tis day, what though it be?
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Did we lie down because ‘twas night?
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I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
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if time is queer/and memory is trans/and my hands hurt in the cold/then
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it hurts like never when the always is now,
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My brother still bites his nails to the quick,
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So much hurt is forgotten with the horizon
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More Poems about Religion
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Wake up, greet the sun, and pray.
Burn cedar, sweet grass, sage—
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sometimes I strain
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