A student from my school just passed away, this morning or last night, not really sure. He'd been battling with cancer for a while, and although we thought he was in remission, he left us for a better place. A couple of teachers read this poem today. I thought it would be appropriate to post here, as well, even though I didn't write it. It's by John Donne.
"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,
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."
Rest in peace, Matt. Can't wait to see you again someday.