| 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. John Donne |
I am proud of your service
In awe of what you survived
Of how you helped others
Never seeing yourself as brave
Only a speck of sand on that beach!





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