Let a man contend to the uttermost
For his life's set prize, be it what it will!
The counter our lovers staked was lost
As surely as if it were lawful coin;
And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost
Is—the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin,
Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.
The Statue and the Bust.
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. xxxiii.