Untitled VII

#listen-container { display: inline-block; padding: 9px 15px; background: #10578E; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; border: 1px solid #1791ef; border-bottom: 1px solid #156caf; -webkit-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; -moz-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; } #listen-container:hover { background: #2f9cf1; } #listen-container a { color: #fff; } .listen-container-svg { fill: #fff; height: 20px; width: 22px; margin-right: 5px; } #text-player { margin-right: 0; display: inline-block; font-size: 16px; top: -3px; position: relative; float: none; font-family: "Roboto","sans-serif"; font-size: 12px; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.1em; } Listen to this Poem Your browser does not support the audio element. We have no knowledge of whose turn has come While Death roams about freely among us: Dashing through men's lives as His own orchard, He plucks and strips anyone He chooses. He crushes people, leaves them with backs bent, And makes multitudes shed tears of lament. He plunders estates to His heart's content, Routs men with all His might till Life oozes. Before the heroes grow old and decrepit, Death strikes and lowers them into the pit Without any forewarning about it. With gleaming eyes, Death enjoys His ruses.