Will hold you three hours after by the smell, In spite of long walks on the windy hills. But these words dealt in sharper perfume,—these Were ever on me, stinging through my dreams, And saying themselves for ever o’er my acts Like some unhappy verdict. That I failed, Is certain. Stye or no stye, to contrive The swine’s propulsion toward the precipice, Proved easy and plain. I subtly organised And ordered, built the cards up high and higher, Till, some one breathing, all fell flat again; In setting right society’s wide wrong, Mere life’s so fatal! So I failed indeed Once, twice, and oftener,—hearing through the rents Of obstinate purpose, still those words of yours, ‘_You will not compass your poor ends, not you!_’ But harder than you said them; every time Still farther from your voice, until they came To overcrow me with triumphant scorn Which vexed me to resistance. Set down this For condemnation,—I was guilty here: I stood upon my deed and fought my doubt, As men will,—for I doubted,—till at last My deed gave way beneath me suddenly, And left me what I am. The curtain dropped, My part quite ended, all the footlights quenched, My own soul hissing at me through the dark, I, ready for confession,—I was wrong, I’ve sorely failed; I’ve slipped the ends of life, I yield; you have conquered.’ ‘Stay,’ I answered him; ‘I’ve something for your hearing, also. I Have failed too.’ ‘You!’ he said, ‘you’re very great; The sadness of your greatness fits you well: As if the plume upon a hero’s casque Should nod a shadow upon his victor face.’