One Year Later

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 can'st 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 rest their delivery.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, sickness dwell,
And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thy then;
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, though shalt die.

From Holy Sonnet X by John Donne