  GRIEF, let us come to terms! Your strict siege narrows In on the final citadel of my soul, Perish the outworks in a storm of arrows, Mangonel, mace and battleaxe gain their goal. Yet have we still provision and caparison, You will not brook, nor we admit, defeat— Take then the broken fort not grudge the garrison Generous safe-conduct and a proud retreat. Granted, O Grief? So am I saved disbanding, Even in my end, the powers which called me chief— Sick Memory, weak Will and Understanding Wounded to death. Marvellest thou, chivalrous Grief, Seeing us slink into the eternal distance, A foe so faint should make such long resistance? |
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