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 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.

Poem by Robert William Service
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