Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud
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.
This was my dad on Sunday, looking at his parents’ graves in Santa Barbara. I could not get the photo to load on facebook, so I am putting it here.
For my students, what kind of sonnet is this? How can you tell?
For fans of Emma Thompson: Where does the comma go?
For my loved ones: What is Dad thinking? What is he remembering? What is he imagining?
Why are you crying?