DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee | |
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, | |
For, those, whom thou think'st, 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 soules 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 swell'st thou then; | |
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, | |
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. |
My wife and I were just discussing the 9/11 memorial service and Paul Simon singing "Sound of Silence." What a difference between that and "Death be not proud..." One poem empty and needing eisogesis for meaning, the latter rooted in Christs victory over death.
ReplyDeleteYes, such a vast contrast: hope vs. despair, emptiness.
ReplyDelete