All seeming hollow, all thy joys are naught! When deem'st thou fortune is within thy hand, Its golden wings and heralds athwart thy way, The lowlier bed of sickness yawns for thee: The House of Death cannot be bought with wealth. The lamps of honour are pretentious lights, But darken quickly in the vicious Draught. Pledge a piastre for the truth of this, With joys thou hast thy friends in webs, With griefs thou weavest alone in heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ELEPHANT by HILAIRE BELLOC CAPPER KAPLINSKI AT THE NORTH SIDE CUE CLUB by HAYDEN CARRUTH PARAGRAPHS: 16 by HAYDEN CARRUTH ALIENS (TO YOU - EVERYWHERE! DEDICATED) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON PENDULUM by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |