Alexander's Grave

When once he raised his head in brazen pride
From centuries of stony serpents' hearts,
He looked upon the world and raised his hand,
Encased in black and terrible to see,
And took his sword to conquer all he saw.

The world was at his feet, dejected, torn,
And still he cannot rest, till all is his;
He will not stop till his is heaven's door.

His visage stamped in silver, gold, and bronze.
Proclaiming all his glory to the ages hence,
He shall live long, and after death still more -
His name enshrined in memory's annals while
His mark upon the world is left behind.

For Death shall have no sting, no chilling bite.
Death shall not take his spirit, though he die,
His body withered once from dust to dust,
And grass grows sweetly on his mounded grave.

But yet when all is done and gone
There is no more than shadows on the grass.
And grass in winter's chill shall wither and be gone,
And love shall not his memory resurrect;
It lies not in his cold and lonely grave.