Tho' lack of laurels and of wreaths not one Prove you our lives abortive, shall we yet Vaunt us our single aim, our hearts full set To win the guerdon which is never won. Witness, a purpose never is undone. And tho' fate drain our seas of violet To gather round our lives her wide-hung net, Memories of hopes that are not shall atone. Not wholly starless is the ill-starred life, Not all is night in failure, and the shield Sometimes well grasped, tho' shattered in the strife. And here while all the lowering heaven is ringed With our loud death-shouts echoed, on the field Stands forth our Nikè, proud, tho' broken-winged.