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.