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.

More poems by Robert Service

While I make rhymes my brother John / Makes shiny shoes which dames try on,

I told a truth, a tragic truth / That tore the sullen sky;

Could Fate ordain a lot for me / Beyond all human ills,

From off my calendar today / A leaf I tear;