Into his eyes there flashed a fire,
Out of its scabbard leaped the blade;
Three strides across the room he made—
His heart beat hot with fierce desire.
Cold is the wreck his steel has wrought,
While living horror takes its stead:—
Have all these years of calmness sped
To miss at last, the prize he sought?
O, blossom of that long-past life!
O, venom of forgotten sin!
So nearly won—again begin
The long, long round of weary strife!