Abyat: English poems, one at a time

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd 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 yet thy pictures be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low

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.

O rose, thou art sick!

The invisible worm,

That flies in the night,

In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy,

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.