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Although it is a solemn piece and about death, this poem is far from sad. It is incredibly beautiful and has been haunting me since I first heard it a few weeks ago. I like it read aloud- slowly and quietly.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou are not soe,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor 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 are 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.

~John Donne (1572-1631

The last enemy that will be destroyed is death.

~1 Corinthians 15:26

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