Poem for month: Death be not proud
I have set a goal for myself of memorizing a poem, fragment of a poem or speech each month. At first I thought of one a week, but I am old and retired and try to avoid anything that looks seriously like work. The verse below is a kind of softball, since I have known it for over forty years. I first heard it in 1968 during a memorial service for Robert Kennedy - I remember the woman who recited it looked up significantly at the line "and soonest our best men with thee do go."
Death be not proud
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 better than thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
--- John Donne
John Donne is to me an interesting guy. In his youth he was successful both as a lyric poet and with the ladies ("If ever true beauty I did see, which I had sought and got --- twas but a dream of thee..." etc, etc). Apparently many an Elizabethan lass, recipients of such verse, ended up in his bed. Later in life, when the fire had gone out, he became pious, joined the clergy and wrote some fine religious poetry. He reminds me a bit of Saint Augustine: "Grant me chastity and temperance, oh Lord --- but not yet."