The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings. Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still. Early or late, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds. Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOURTH BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 7. CHERRY RIPE by THOMAS CAMPION TWO POEMS TO HANS THOMA ON HIS SIXIETH BIRTHDAY: 2. THE KNIGHT by RAINER MARIA RILKE FOAM STRAY by JOSEPH AUSLANDER JOB. THE INSCRUTABLE MYSTERY by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS POEMS by ROBERT BURNS THE INELUCTABLE by EDWARD RALPH CHEYNEY |