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<br/>
<h2> GOOD WAS THE FIGHT </h2>
<p>How have I toiled, how have I set my face<br/>
Fair to the swords! No man could say I quailed;<br/>
Ne’er did I falter; I dare not to have failed,<br/>
I dare not to have dropped from out the race.<br/>
<br/>
Good was the fight—good, till a piteous dream<br/>
Crept from some direful covert of despair;<br/>
Showed me your look, that look so true and fair,<br/>
Distant and bleak; for me no more to gleam.<br/>
<br/>
Then was I driven back upon my soul,<br/>
Then came dark moments; lady, then I drew<br/>
Forth from its place the round unfathomed bowl<br/>
<br/>
Of sorrow, and from it I quaffed to you;<br/>
Speaking as men speak who have lost<br/>
Their hearts’ last prize—and dare not count the cost.<br/></p>
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