Determined in the mellay of the foemen
But not because he thinks to give’t for spoil.
He brings the wreath, which now no more by courage
Only by hope forlorn was to be reached,
The victory-wreath, albeit tattered, with him.
You called me craven. If the man is so
Who fears a seated demon in himself,
Then I at times am craven, but alone
When I must reach my goal on crooked by-paths,
When I must duck my head and make a show