Poetry seems to be a frequent medium for expressing fear about death, hope for salvation, grief, loss, the effect of violence, and horrors of war. I grew to love poetry during college and have an affinity toward some of the darker works. This poem one of my favorites. It expresses a belief in an afterlife and hope for salvation. As a mortuary archaeologist, I read something entirely different through it. Death is not the end of life. It is merely a moment. Our corporeal beings have lives long after our spirits die and archaeology is the medium through which that life speaks.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
| DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee | |
| Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, | |
| For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow, | |
| Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. | |
| From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, | 5 |
| 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 art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, | |
| And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, | 10 |
| 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. |
Death Be Not Proud 