Victor and Vanquished

As one who long hath fled with panting breath
&nbsp Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall,
&nbsp I turn and set my back against the wall,
&nbsp And look thee in the face, triumphant Death,
I call for aid, and no one answereth;
&nbsp I am alone with thee, who conquerest all;
&nbsp Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall,
&nbsp For thou art but a phantom and a wraith.
Wounded and weak, sword broken at the hilt,
&nbsp With armor shattered, and without a shield,
&nbsp I stand unmoved; do with me what thou wilt;
I can resist no more, but will not yield.
&nbsp This is no tournament where cowards tilt;
&nbsp The vanquished here is victor of the field.