Victor and Vanquished
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.