Be Not Proud

It's been a week of death in the family and of deaths across the Southern United States as horrifying, quick-as-a-blink storms have torn gaping holes through the South. Today, death seems "mighty and dreadful" -- the final conqueror. And yet, it's still Easter season -- a time to remember life conquering death, and a time to look forward to the final triumph of life over death. It is also the last day in April, National poetry month, so today I'm posting one of my favorite poems from 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,	5
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,	10
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.