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.