When the last fight is lost, the last sword broken;

The last call sounded, the last order spoken;

When from the field where braver hearts lie sleeping,

Faint, and athirst, and blinded, I come creeping,

With not one waving shred of palm to bring you,

With not one splendid battle-song to sing you,

O Love, in my dishonor and defeat,

Your measureless compassion will be sweet.