– 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 picture[s] 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'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.
1609?
Holy Sonnets: X
Thursday, 31 December 2009
I’ve taught Donne several times over the years, most recently to the 2009 HSC class. In conjunction with Margaret Edson’s W;t, this poem provided a marvellous pivot for reflecting on the power of poetic discourse to explore all those wonderful existential questions we love to avoid. One for the old year!