As one who long hath fled with panting breath
       &nbsp Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall,
       &nbsp I turn and set my back against the wall,
       &nbsp And look thee in the face, triumphant Death,
I call for aid, and no one answereth;
       &nbsp I am alone with thee, who conquerest all;
       &nbsp Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall,
       &nbsp For thou art but a phantom and a wraith.
Wounded and weak, sword broken at the hilt,
       &nbsp With armor shattered, and without a shield,
       &nbsp I stand unmoved; do with me what thou wilt;
I can resist no more, but will not yield.
       &nbsp This is no tournament where cowards tilt;
       &nbsp The vanquished here is victor of the field.