For four score years
Was man made for the airs.
If he be lucky, though rare,
Live he four score and ten year
Before grim Death comes
A knocking for his dues.
Dues he must at all cost pay
For his soul is the prize of pay
Though he hath all wealth
Yet hath he nought-
In his vast heap of abundance
To tarry pale Death a stance-
As ransome for his departing soul
Fading away in deaths prowl.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem