Still ill, but having received word of the death of an old friend from the U.S., felt I had to say something. I was angry, as I always am, when I lose someone, but this time I was angry at death itself and that made me remember this poem by John Donne which he wrote in 1609. So, I give you little else today, but I give you this “Holy Sonnet X” from a great poet.
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, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and souls deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better than thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, Death, thou shalt die.
And, as all Christians know, Christ did indeed conquer death, but I still hurt when the loss comes close to me. Hope this helps someone.