My friend Bruce Wirtz died on Tuesday, so I did not "blog" yesterday.

Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10)
by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou are 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.

Comments

  1. Father Wirtz, if it in indeed you who passed on this day, you funny man, I can only bless you for talking to this very young mother, in 1964, and assuring me that I would indeed be a good mom, would know what to do in all situations ("If it is really serious, call the operator!")

    I know when it is my time to pass over, you will probably be in my group of greeters, maybe with a tambourine!

    ReplyDelete

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