Epitaph
No matter how he toil and strive
The fate of every man alive
With luck will be to lie alone,
His empty name cut in a stone.
Grim time the fairest fame will flout,
But though his name be blotted out,
And he forgotten with his peers,
His stone may wear a year of years.
No matter how we sow and reap
The end of all is endless sleep;
From strife a merciful release,
From life the crowning prize of Peace.
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