John Donne: Death Be Not Proud

Sometimes people ask me where the titles of the books in The Secret Of The Journal series come from, and why I’ve chosen them. A few, like this one, are well known, but some are a bit obscure.

I studied metaphysical poetry at college and it was fundamental in helping me find – and define – my faith. How could something written over four-hundred years ago still be as potent today as when it was written? Perhaps it is because it speaks to the very heart of our humanity, to those things on which we dwell: love, fear, hope, faith, death – the nature of which never truly change, even if the words in which we express them have. This poem – by one of the most influential and insightful men of his time – remains a favourite.

Death Be Not Proud

John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,

For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.

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.