Original sonnet by John Donne
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, 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 soules 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 then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
I wrote a different sonnet, one I felt better described my view of death. I am new to writing poetry so, as always, comments/criticism welcome
Death be not proud, though some have called thee,
Cozy and safely, they say from afar,
Death, when not near, soft and gentle be,
Yet closer view reveals truth bizarre.
For in Death’s right hand be insanity,
If pleasure, from thy passage thou doest leave,
Why, in death, tears come as sure as gravity?
Thy sythe, fear incarnate, to those who breathe.
Thou wieldeth Fate, Chance, Kings, and cunning men,
Wiser than me hath believed thy lies.
Yet even fools, by chance, may eye the trick misplayn
A deeper pain than poppy highs,
Yet now I strive to cross thy stream foreseen,
To please now the light which will fill my being.