He has come the way of the fighting men, and fought by the rules of the
Game,
And out of Life he has gathered--What? A living,--and little fame,
Ever and ever the Goal looms near,--seeming each time worth while;
But ever it proves a mirage fair--ever the grim gods smile.
And so, with lips hard set and white, he buries the hope that is gone,--
His fight is lost--and he knows it is lost--and yet he is fighting on.

Out of the smoke of the battle-line watching men win their way,
And, cheering with those who cheer success, he enters again the fray,
Licking the blood and the dust from his lips, wiping the sweat from his
eyes,
He does the work he is set to do--and 'therein honor lies.'
Brave they were, these men he cheered,--theirs is the winners' thrill;
_His_ fight is lost--and he knows it is lost--and yet he is fighting still.

And those who won have rest and peace; and those who died have more;
But, weary and spent, he can not stop seeking the ultimate score;
Courage was theirs for a little time,--but what of the man who sees
That he must lose, yet will not beg mercy upon his knees?
Side by side with grim Defeat, he struggles at dusk or dawn,--
His fight is lost--and he knows it is lost--and yet he is fighting on.

Praise for the warriors who succeed, and tears for the vanquished dead;
The world will hold them close to her heart, wreathing each honored head,
But there in the ranks, soul-sick, time-tried, he battles against the odds,
Sans hope, but true to his colors torn, the plaything of the gods!
Uncover when he goes by, at last! Held to his task by will
The fight is lost--and he knows it is lost--and yet he is fighting still!