No one to care for figure so forlorn;
So hard, when mind's eye sees but clouds,
And ideals of their lustre all are shorn.
Contentment's price comes high on this fools earth;
Elusive happiness is difficult to catch;
If we could value things at their true worth,
How cleverly our wits and Fate's would match.
Enough of this -- all is over now ;
The end finds me a loser -- on the run;
Come you conqueror, take your well-earned bow,
Let all the world know
Fate has won.