Death Be Not Proud || Poem 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.

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