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,
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;
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.
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Comments1I just stumbled upon this poem called Holy Sonnet X:Death be not proud and I really liked it. It's interesting how the poet talks directly to Death and tells it not to be proud, that it's not as powerful as it thinks. The line "And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die" really stuck with me, like death itself will eventually meet its own end. Kinda makes you think about how we view death in our lives. Lot to contemplate from such a short piece.