Wednesday, August 10, 2011







Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10)
by John Donne


Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are 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.


4 comments:

ABBOTTLAND said...

Such a beautiful picture. I think the hardest thing for me is knowing that these little ones may someday forget who grandpa was. He loved them so much and lived each day for all of them. I still can't believe he is gone.
~Mandy

Lynette said...

That was one of the sweetest sights I've ever witnessed! I bawl all over again just seeing this and thinking about the reality. Great post Rachelle.

Anonymous said...

What a sweet, sweet picture! I love how kids just automatically take care of eachother. I hope you guys are hanging in there.

Allison said...

I love that poet.
It's still so sad to me, but that poem reminds me, it is not over.