A Day for Poetry

Relax, I didn't write it!

Someone and I were discussing poetry for a while today - something I said reminded him of a Frost poem, and nothing would do but he had to look it up and read it. We debated a while the deeper meanings of the words after exploring the surface for a bit.

This led me to think of a poem that I love by John Donne. I am fond of many of his pieces, and I will admit that my current favourite of his became so because of a movie. If you haven't seen it, Wit is a stunner, although it's a bit slow in the action department and is guaranteed to make me cry every time. Throughout, there is a dissection of the Donne poem - Death Be Not Proud, or the Tenth Holy Sonnet.

As I had the poem on my mind, I thought I'd share it:

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.