Death Be Not Proud

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; not yet canst thou kill me.

From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;

And soonest our best men with thee do go-

Rest of their bones and souls' delivery!

Thou'rt 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!

V: Elegy: Edna St. Vincent Millay

Let them bury your big eyes

In the secret earth securly,

Your thin fingers, and your fair,

Soft, indefinite-couloured hair,-

All of these in some way, surely,

From the secret earth shall rise;

Not for these I sit and stare,

Broken and bereft completely:

Your young flesh that sat so neatly

On your little bones will sweetly

Blossom in the air.

But your voice . . . never the rushing

Of a river underground,

Not the rising of the wind

In the tress before the rain,

Not the woodcock's watery call,

Not the note the white-throat utters,

Not the feet of children pushing

Yellow leaves along the gutters

In the blue and bitter fall,

Shall content my musing mind

For the beauty of that sound

That in no new way at all

Never will be heard again.

Sweetly through the sappy stalk

Of the vigourous weed,

Holding all it held before,

Cherished by the faithful sun,

On and on eternally

Shall your altered fluid run,

Bud and bloom and go to seed:

But your singing days are done;

But the music of your talk;

Never shall the chemistry

Of the secret earth restore.

All your lovely words are spoken.

Once the ivory box is broken,

Beats the golden bird no more.

XVI: Edna St. Vincent Millay

The doctor asked her what she wanted done

With him, that could not lie there many days.

And she was shocked to see how life goes on

Even after death, in irritating ways;

And mused how if he had not died at all

'Twould have been easier-then there need not be

The stiff disorder of a funeral

Everywhere, and the hideous industry,

And crowds of people calling her by name

And questioning her, she'd never seen before,

But only watching by his bed once more

And sitting silent if a knocking came . . .

She said at length, feeling the doctor's eyes,

"I don't know what you do exactly when a person dies."

Because I Could Not Stop for Death: Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school where the children played,

Their lessons scarcely done;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed

A swelling of the ground;

The roof was scarcely visible,

The cornice but a mound.

Since then 't is centuries; but each

Feels shorter than the day

I first surmised the horses' heads

Were toward eternity.

O Captain! My Captain!: Walt Whitman

1

O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting

While follow eyes the steady kneel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O Heart! heart! heart!

Leave you not the little spot,

Where on the deck my captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

2

O captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells:

Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for you the bugle trills;

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores a crowding:

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

O captain! dear father!

This arm I push beneath you;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead.

3
My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will:

But the ship, the ship is anchor'd safe, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won:

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with silent tread,

Walk the spot my captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.