George Herbert(1593–1633)
Death
Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
Nothing but bones,
T h e sad e f f e c t o f s a d d e r groans:
T h y m o u t h w a s o p e n , b u t t h o u c o u l d s t n o t sing.
For we c o n s i d e r e d t h e e as at s o m e six
O r t e n years h e n c e ,
A f t e r t h e l o s s o f life a n d s e n s e ,
F l e s h b e i n g t u r n e d t o dust, a n d b o n e s t o sticks.
W e l o o k e d o n this side o f t h e e , s h o o t i n g short;
Where we did find
T h e s h e l l s o f f l e d g e s o u l s left b e h i n d ,
D r y d u s t , w h i c h s h e d s n o tears, b u t m a y extort.1
But since our Savior's death did put some blood
Into thy face,
T h o u art g r o w n fair a n d full of grace,
M u c h i n r e q u e s t , m u c h s o u g h t for a s a g o o d .
For w e d o n o w b e h o l d t h e e gay a n d glad,
As at D o o m s d a y ; 0Judgment Day
W h e n s o u l s shall w e a r their n e w array,
A n d all thy b o n e s w i t h b e a u t y shall be clad.
T h e r e f o r e w e c a n g o die a s s l e e p , a n d trust
H a l f that w e h a v e
U n t o a n h o n e s t f a i t h f u l grave;
M a k i n g o u r p i l l o w s e i t h e r d o w n , o r d u s t .