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...A HYMN [TO THE NAME AND] IN HONOR OF SAINT TERESA by RICHARD CRASHAW THE IDEA OF BALANCE IS TO BE FOUND IN HERONS AND LOONS by JAMES HARRISON IN SICKNESS (1714) by JONATHAN SWIFT SONNET ON CATHERINE WORDSWORTH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH SOME SWEET DAY by LEWIS J. BATES HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 43 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |