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Death's Final Conquest

Rating: 2.7

The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings;
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Dr. Norbert Augustin 04 June 2021

One of the most realistic poems ever written. It exemplifies the vanity of life when we encounter Death.

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eric drake 13 August 2018

meaning please of this poem

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