I wrote this in response to John Donne's "Death, Be Not Proud..."


Death’s Retort To John Donne

So thou tell me, be not proud, for 'tis I have been called,
Might and dreadful thou claimest not, 'til thou shalt feel mine scald.
For 'tis thine life I overthrow, wilt one day thou be mine,
Die not will I, though thou shalt fall, thy soul beneath my brine.
No rest, nor sleep, no mercy then, from me to thee wilt flow,
The best of men, include with thou, for all to me shalt go.
Thou laugh to beg deliverance, no bones shall rest for thee,
And thou to be my slave for'ere, eternity with me.
With poison, war, and sickness strike, thou prayers to go unheard,
Disdainful poppies, charms, or butterflies, vile bitterness unfurled.
Take task for thine embezzeled soul, that swellest now with ire,
Deny thou may, for when thou wakes, 'tis death shalt thee desire.
Short sleep past, eternal wake, in peace thou shalt not lie,
For death dear one, shall always be, 'tis thou o' mortal shalt die.

Copyright 2004-2008 CZF

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