With all thy gold, thou canst not make Time sell his sand; With all thy cloth, a thin white shroud Is Death's command; Death gives thee but a poor man's space, With all thy land. The beggar in his grave and thou Must be the same; For neither thou nor he shall hear Men's praise or blame; Though thunder and a thousand rocks Should call thy name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PROTESTS (AFTER A PAINTING BY HUGO BALLIN) by LOUIS UNTERMEYER TWO SONGS OF A FOOL: 1 by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS EVENEN IN THE VILLAGE by WILLIAM BARNES THE NILE by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT THE ARMADA; A FRAGMENT by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY CROSSING THE PLAINS by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER |