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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE YARN OF THE 'NANCY BELL' by WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT ARIEL'S SONG (1) [OR, DIRGE] [OR, A SEA DIRGE]. FR. THE TEMPEST by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE BOY BRITTAN [FEBRUARY 8, 1862] by BYRON FORCEYTHE WILLSON CARPE DIEM by JEAN ANTOINE DE BAIF TO JUDAH HA-LEVI by M. L. R. BRESLAR TO K. H. by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN MY KATE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: CONDEMNED ONES by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |