Wherefore, with this belief held like a blade, Gathering my strength and purpose still and slow, I wait, resolved to carry it to the heart Of that dark doubt in one collected blow, And stand at guard with spirit undismayed: Nor fear the Opposer's anger, arms or art, When from a hiding near behold him start With a fresh weapon of my weakness made And goad me with myself, and urge the attack While I strike short and still give back and back While the foe rages. Then from that disgrace He points to where they sit that have won the race, Laurel on laurel wreathing face o'er face, And leaves me lower still, for, ranked in place, |