“I come to tear the veil from ancient lies!”
“I seize the odds! Let others share the prize!”
“I fail, that some may conquer, soon or late!”
But one who bore, within that radiant line,
A look as cool as joy, as firm as pain,
And touched his sword, as some rapt village swain
Touches the cup that holds his wedding wine,
Spoke not, until they urged: “What aim is thine?”
“I fight, that none may ever fight again!”
—G. M. Hort, London Nation.