Sic Transit

Death is no respecter of our plans
But comes untimely on its hour,
Unwelcome and ignored: although the sand
Of time runs surely through its tower.
With fanfare fraught, and failing health,
So we must sadly meet our end.
All our schemes, and all our earthly wealth
Are merest trifles, and as nothing when
Our time has run. Death comes with stealth,
To render worthless all our gain.
Whatever good we did, whatever ill,
Our dearest plans, our finest words will
Be abandoned, lost and binned,
Or with our ashes, scattered to the wind.

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