A Poem by J. Donne: Death, Be Not Proud

 Death, Be Not Proud

(also known as Sonnet X)
by 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, 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.

A Poem by C. Rossetti: Beneath Thy Cross

 Beneath Thy Cross

by Christina Rossetti

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath thy cross, To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss, And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee; Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon– I, only I.

Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock; Greater than Moses, turn and look once more And smite a rock.