Comfort in sadness

2 June 2014: Yesterday I learned that a friend from graduate school experienced an unthinkable tragedy: her only daughter, just six years old, died suddenly. I hadn't met the little girl--just seen pictures and posts on Facebook--but the news cast a pall over the day. A true English nerd, though, I found a bit of comfort in poetry, specifically this famous sonnet from Donne.


Holy Sonnet 72
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.