Thanks to Anthony Clavier for pointing out that today is the anniversary of John Donnes death (1572-1631). He was an Anglican priest and a great British metaphysical poet. I had to take a look at his well known Holy Sonnet X: Death Be Not Proud. I love this sonnet, especially the withering diminishment of haughty death and its ultimate cosmological demise. Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so, For, those, whom thou thinkst, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and souls deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swellst thou then; One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And Death shall be no more, death thou shalt die!
Posted on: Mon, 31 Mar 2014 20:21:37 +0000
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