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...DREAMS (2) by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON, FR. THE HELLENICS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR SONNET: 13. TO MR. H. LAWES, ON HIS AIRS by JOHN MILTON OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD by THOMAS MOORE TWO POEMS TO HANS THOMA ON HIS SIXIETH BIRTHDAY: 2. THE KNIGHT by RAINER MARIA RILKE WALLS by WILLIAM HERVEY ALLEN JR. |