The recent loss of Doug Chaplin, a person very dear to me, has taken away my desire to blog. I will be back soon, but in the meantime I leave you with this sonnet by John Donne which seems so appropriate to how I feel about my recent experience.
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 picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go—
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery!
Thou'rt 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
If you feel so inclined to donate in Doug's memory, I would so greatly appreciate it. A donation page has been set up at the American Cancer Society.
