The Epoch Times
july 25 – 31, 2012
Poetry analysis: ‘Death Be Not
Proud’ by John Donne
Arthur Christopher
Schaper
John Donne shifted dramati-
cally in his life: The early
John Donne was the passion-
ate lover and rebel of sense;
the later Donne, a man con-
sumed with his own spiritual
journey and search for truth.
John Donne is known as
the first and greatest of met-
aphysical poets – those of
a genre in which “the most
heterogeneous ideas are
yoked by violence together;
nature and art are ransacked
for illustrations, comparisons
and allusions”, as essayist and
critic Samuel Johnson put it.
Here, John Donne has
taken a Romantic form and
transformed a transcendental
struggle of life and death into
a quiet ending, one in which
death “shall be no more”.
Where Mr Johnson spied
cumbersome force, John
Donne’s style dazzles with
soft and calm brilliance, even
in the cascade of calumnies
against the great “equal-
iser” Death. “Fate, chance,
kings and desperate men”
are yoked together, not in
bondage, but in freedom,
in their power to inflict and
manipulate death at will. The
panorama of life and legacy
has overcome death time
and again, yet John Donne
expounds the expansive
exploitation of death in one
verse.
It is the will of man that
triumphs over the cessa-
tion of life, the will to believe
in what cannot be seen, to
dismiss “poor death” as mere
“pictures” compared to the
substance of life infused with
the Spirit.
Death, be not proud,
though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for
thou art not so;
No bragging rights for
Death, according to the poet,
who in the first two lines
of his sonnet denounces in
apostrophe the end of life,
“not proud”, “not so”.
“Mighty and dreadful”, two
weighty terms, do not belong
nor confer any majesty on
death. “Thou are not so.” A
simple statement, a certain
indictment and the poet has
dispensed with Death, who
is ponderous, no preposter-
ous for the previous fears His
presence has impressed on
mankind.
For those whom thou
think’st thou dost overthrow?
Die not, poor death, nor
yet canst thou kill me.
In this neat conceit, Death
himself is fooled, limited by
the surface. “Thou think’st
thou dost overthrow,” the
monarch of destruction is an
impoverished exile, removed
forever more from the room
of imperious prominence.
“Poor death” is now the object
ARTS 23
Death Be Not Proud
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 pic-
tures 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.
–John Donne (1572-1631)
John Donne by Isaac Oliver (1616).
of pity, the last enemy that which the poet fashions with of today and the progenitors who resist the bounds of decrees. Death is further
will be thrown into the lake wit and wisdom. “Fate” is far of the future. Death, mere natural appetite. Sickness also impoverished, ruined, left
of fire. greater the force than the bystander, ushers in the tran- is the final sign, the moments desolate. Man in eternal life
From rest and sleep, which end of life, which menaces sitions of power. when a man who departs witnesses death succumbing
but thy pictures be, many men. “Chance” is a As for the company of knows well that his time is to himself. “Death shall be
Much pleasure; then from game, a mere trifle, a toy that death, the poet outlines short and so the stultifying no more,” the poet proudly
thee much more must flow, men gamble with, whether simply “poison”, natural or stops of pains and coughs yet dulcetly declares, not
And soonest our best men ending their fortunes or otherwise, which can slay a at least buy him time to say even bothering to speak to
with thee do go, their lives. “Kings” put evil man in minutes or in hours. “good-bye”. death. So certain, so final,
Rest of their bones, and rebels, madmen and threats Poisons that have ended “Poppy or charms can so enriched with vigour,
soul’s delivery. kings and queens, eradicated make us sleep as well.” “As the poet then whispers, yet
The poet compares death vermin and other pestilences, well” communicates “in com- loudly of the import of the
not to a savage desecration even drugs that prosper and parison” and “in addition”, paradox: “Death, thou shalt
nor a fatal, final battle, but prolong life began as poisons, gaily sporting with the super- die.”
instead an extension of any which in improper doses kill, abounding grace of nature’s Death dies, or is Death
easy rest, one from which a John Donne and quickly. wonders, which man has dying? What a wicked end,
man receives “much pleas-
ure”. “Rest and sleep” as
has taken a Whether the vain ragings
of craven men or glory
contrived to ease his pain and
quicken his rest. “Poppy” is a
the poet has mocked, derided,
denounced and diminished
“pictures”, the poet conde- Romantic form on the battlefields, “war” joyful word, a colourful, child- death into a cruel joke, a
scendingly remarks, bring
death into the secondary
and transformed covers a range of reigns and
rights, ponderings and pos-
like flower winding away with
careless wonder in the wind.
maxim that maximises the
power of the man reborn,
status of demeaning dimen- a transcendental sibilities. Death is not even “Charms”, whether magical or trusting in a higher power
sion. Men’s bones receive a
welcome respite and their
struggle of life a scavenger, but a frustrated
element pushed to the limit,
romantic, are bewitching and
bewailing, at least for the one
to infuse him with eternal
life, forever inoculating him
soul the final delivery from and death into expected to do the bidding who has fallen beneath their from the subtleties of war,
this Earth. Death has nothing
to brag about, for death is
a quiet ending, of the common folk and the
ruling elite, the final weapon
spell. Sometimes, the simple
charm of a smiling face suf-
poison and sickness all. Fate
is fated to disappear, chance
put in comparison with rest, one in which that man overcomes even fices more, traced with the has become certainty,
with sleep, with regenera-
tive silence. Death does not
death “shall be in being overcome. In war,
where men die for country,
soft face of a poppy gladly
handed to a loved one. And
kings of limited renown are
dethroned and desperate
catch the prey of frail men, no more” they live forever in the so, Death is outdone once men now hope. “Death, thou
but instead sets men free and memory of their country- again! shalt die.” Death is now bereft
without fail. men, mocking Death who has One short sleep past, we of pride, like a witless cowboy
Thou art slave to fate, aided their eternity. wake eternally, who has shot himself in the
chance, kings, and desperate “Sickness” is the necessary And death shall be no foot, powerless and wounded,
men, to the state, to death. No one pause for men who cannot more, death, thou shalt die. and by his own stroke.
And dost with poison, war, escapes the justice, the rule, contain their passions, for “Sleep” appears again, John Donne indeed has
and sickness dwell, the righteousness of the the growing race of human but not in conjunction with done and dispensed with
And poppy or charms can king, who even in passing, his beings who run the race with rest; instead, rest leads to Death and mortal man ever-
make us sleep as well? dynasty passes on: “The King no thought to running out. life eternal, where man will more may rejoice!
And better than thy stroke; is dead. Long live the King!” Sickness is the crucial agent no longer need to rest, fash-
why swell’st thou then? is proclaimed from death to that brings a long and much- ioned as he will be in a body Arthur Christopher Schaper is an
Here, death as deemed a life, where the children of needed arrest to those who that does not age, that will author and teacher who lives in
slave, a unique trope, one, yesteryear become the rulers inflict harm on their bodies, never flag or fail, John Donne Torrance, California.