He is the discard of the pack;
He wonders, as he's tossed aside,
What miss was his, what sorry lack,
In what he erred, for whom he died?

The two and fifty, comrades good,
He loved; he yearned to play the game;
The rules he thought he understood, —
Chances for glory or for shame.

And so, high-heartedly he leapt
Into the maze of queens and kings;
In careless-wise, the Great Adept
His soul into a corner flings.

See, the once merry knave lies low,
Puzzled, he broods his fortune black;
This one thing only can he know:
He is the discard of the pack.