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.
In this sonnet John Donne attempts to reduce fear of death and tries to convince that the death is a normal incident of life.
The sonnet opens with the poet's address to death that there is nothing for death to be proud. Some people consider death powerful and dangerous. But poet challenges death saying that it cannot kill him. The poet believes that the picture of death is nothing but rest and sleep. If death provides rest and sleep, pleasure is to be derived out of it.
Then poet says that the best of people have sooner or later died. To poet death is nothing except rest to body and soul going to in new body. Death is slave of fate, chance, kings and desperate man. The meaning is if person dies only when fate decides or chance decides death. Sometimes a person dies when King decides death as punishment, sometimes death has to come when a man do suicide. The poet mentions that there are three places where death lives. In poison, war and illness. The poet does a comparison between sleep caused by death and caused by charms of mother. He believes that sleep caused by mother's charms is more enjoyable.
There is no need for death to be proud because after that sleep a person gets new form, new life to live for a long time. The poet concludes this sonnet with a statement that death will be no more, death itself will die.
A man's destination is his own village, His own fire, and his wife's cooking; To sit in front of his own door at sunset And see his grandson, and his neighbour's grandson Playing in the dust together. Scarred but secure, he has many memories Which return at the hour of conversation, (The warm or the cool hour, according to the climate) Of foreign men, who fought in foreign places, Foreign to each other. A man's destination is not his destiny, Every country is home to one man And exile to another. Where a man dies bravely At one with his destiny, that soil is his. Let his village remember. This was not your land, or ours: but a village in the Midlands, And one in the Five Rivers, may have the same graveyard. Let those who go home tell the same story of you: Of action with a common purpose, action None the less fruitful if neither you nor we Know, unt...
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