And sees the tanbark tower like old heights
Before careening eyes. At last he sights
The waiting hands and sinuously untangles....
Over the sheer abyss so deadly-near
He falls, like wine to its appointed cup,
Turns like a wheel of fireworks, and is mine.
Battering hands acclaim our triumph clear.
—And steadfast muscles draw my sonnet up
To the firm iron of the fourteenth line.