Whenever a loved one dies, as several in my life have in this year alone, I turn to the comforting reflections of English poet John Donne. Below is one of his most quoted poems. If you have not heard of or forgotten Donne, you'll likely recognize some of his lines. I dedicate this post to the memory of John Pavone, educator, human services professional, educator, musician, chef, husband, friend, and much more, who passed away yesterday.
Holy Sonnet X
By John Donne (1572 - 1631)
By John Donne (1572 - 1631)
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.
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.
