poem: Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud

-John Donne

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.

An over-exposed poem, perhaps, but a former colleague of my father's just died fairly suddenly of cancer, and it has me in a bit of a mood.

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Thank you--we weren't personally close, but he was a good friend of my father's during their time working together, and my dad spent a lot of time visiting with him over this last month and a half.

But he was also--is still, I trust!--a devote Christian, so it's an odd sort of grief, knowing that the separation is only temporary.
Always good to see a classic poem and reread it though I'm sorry for the reason.
He went as easily as any of use can hope for, I suppose--no physical pain, only growing weakness; well-loved by family and friends, with many visitors, and the peace of knowing he'd done the work set before him to the best of his ability.
So sorry about your Dad’s colleague.

(Also you asked about my Mum, she is still in rehab, but getting there - thank you for your prayers xx)
Thank you--we all knew the end was nearing, and he wasn't in any pain, only weak and tired, so I guess it went about as easily as these things can. It's hitting me a bit hard at the moment, I think, because it comes as a reminder that my parents are also mortal; my mom is his age, though in much better health, thank heaven.

I'm glad to hear your mother is improving!