TWO wrestlers in a ruthless grapple strive For triumph; but thro' long, long years doth toil One whose fair brow the dew-filled flowers assoil Who seems in his young lustihood to thrive; The other an old man whose hard thews would rive The thing they clasp, but lean with long turmoil, Dull-eyed, wan-faced, with shrunken hands that coil: 'Tis Death that holdeth man within his gyve. Death tightens his fell hold until at last Man underneath his pallid foe falls down Who thereon cries, "Behold a life o'erthrown!" Man for a moment knows his might doth dwindle. But rising, with his soul Death's self doth blast, And even in dying feels his glory kindle. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LETTER TO HER HUSBAND, ABSENT UPON PUBLIC EMPLOYMENT by ANNE BRADSTREET ALONE (2) by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE FIRST-FOOT by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE BIRDS: THE BUILDING OF CLOUDCUCKOOCITY by ARISTOPHANES FAREWELL TO SUMMER by GEORGE ARNOLD EXPECTATION by GLADYS BRIERLY ASHOUR THE DEBT by KATHARINE LEE BATES |