Love, Death, And Whimsy


Dad showed me this about 20 years ago when I was visiting my folks in Rockport. Ms. Mitchell was a retired schoolteacher, who, (wait for it) loved cats! I find this affection expressed in so fluid a manner refreshing, and in pink granite for good measure. I don't know who carved the stone but I will find out. 

 

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. 

John Donne, Death Be Not Proud. 1633.

https://misterscribbles.blogspot.com/2019/10/two-bad-men.html 

Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

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