The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings;
Scepter and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
By: James Shirley
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1 comment:
Dear Ms. Rezaee
Thank you so much for your kind comment on my blog. And thank you for sharing this nice poem.
Wish you the best,
Maryam
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