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...AMERICA by ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG by OLIVER GOLDSMITH TO HIS MISTRESS by ROBERT HERRICK THE SHOEMAKERS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE OLD BRIDGE by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 2. RUSTIC INTERIOR by JOHN ARMSTRONG TRINITIE SUNDAY (FOR A BASE AND TWO TREBLES) by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |