Death, Be Not Proud

I’m not really a poetry kind of guy. It’s not that I don’t like poetry….. well, ok, it actually is. I’m just not smart enough to follow poems that are more complicated than the roses are red variety. But I’m not so uncultured that I can’t appreciate some poems. Below is the first one with which I ever found a significant connection. I remember discussing this poem in a college class – slowly dissecting it, lingering over the metaphors, and feeling the gravity of its words. It was a meaningful experience for me – someone who still can barely put together a haiku. This remains my favorite poem of all time.

I’m not going to analyze the poem for you. Not yet, anyway. I challenge you to chew on it, sift through it, and discuss it with someone else. I’ll revisit the poem in another post someday.

Death, be not proud – John Donne (1572-1631)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are 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.