Lord John Wilmot
A Fragment of Seneca Translated
After Death nothing is, and nothing, death,
The utmost limit of a gasp of breath.
Let the ambitious zealot lay aside
His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride;
Let slavish souls lay by their fear
Nor be concerned which way nor where
After this life they shall be hurled.
Dead, we become the lumber of the world,
And to that mass of matter shall be swept
Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept.
Devouring time swallows us whole.
Impartial death confounds body and soul.
For Hell and the foul fiend that rules
God's everlasting fiery jails
(Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools),
With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door,
Are senseless stories, idle tales,
Dreams, whimseys, and no more.
Lord John Wilmot's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (A Fragment of Seneca Translated by Lord John Wilmot )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Stafford's Cabin, Edwin Arlington Robinson
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Christmas Trees, Robert Frost
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
- Christmas Carol, Sara Teasdale