شفق
08-12-2007, 08:09 PM
Poem
the glories of our blood and estate
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 croocked sycthe and spade
William blake
the glories of our blood and estate
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 croocked sycthe and spade
William blake