... no, literally. *I* don't mean to. For only the second time in nearly 2200 entries, I'm going to turn over my post to someone else. The first time was a few months back to feature a rant from my good friend Holly A. Today, I turn over my post to someone I never met by the name of John Donne. Without further ado ... in his Olde English words ...
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 overthow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
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,
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.
[Services for the mother of former co-worker Amy L, who fought so valiantly against melanoma and brain cancer, will be held Tuesday from 3-9 at Malec Funeral home in Chicago, with Wednesday mass at 11:30am at Our Lady of Ransom in Niles. My thoughts are with the family at this time.]
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