GOOD WAS THE FIGHT

How have I toiled, how have I set my face

Fair to the swords! No man could say I quailed;

Ne'er did I falter; I dare not to have failed,

I dare not to have dropped from out the race.

Good was the fight — good, till a piteous dream

Crept from some direful covert of despair;

Showed me your look, that look so true and fair,

Distant and bleak; for me no more to gleam.

Then was I driven back upon my soul,

Then came dark moments; lady, then I drew

Forth from its place the round unfathomed bowl

Of sorrow, and from it I quaffed to you;

Speaking as men speak who have lost

Their hearts’ last prize — and dare not count the cost.