The poem
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.