A hero is not fed on sweets,
Daily his own heart he eats;
Chambers of the great are jails,
And head winds right for royal sails.
Another stanza from elsewhere
The mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain;
And the anguish of the singer makes the sweetest of the strain.
Great is the facile conqueror;
Yet haply, he, who wounded sore,
Breathless, all covered o’er with blood and sweat,
Sinks fainting, but fighting evermore–Is greater yet.