From The Washington Times, February 14, 1913.
 By Grantland Rice.
 

 The grey wind sings its song of hate—
 The white snow leads a spectral dance;
 We seek—but find no Open Gate
 Through which to make a last advance;
 Lost—on the Threshold of Romance—
 But not as heroes come to die—
 Just say for us—they took a chance
 And lost—without an alibi.
 
 The dusk grows deeper where we wait
 And homeward speed one final glance—
 ’Tis easy here to curse the Fate—
 The luck which broke us—lance by lance;
 Around us creep the endless trance
 Of silent heart and sightless eye—
 ’Tis but our score—we took a chance
 And lost—without an alibi.
 
 So, Scorer of the Final Slate—
 Last Marker of each circumstance—
 When at the Road’s end, soon or late,
 We stand before the mystic manse—
 Across the limitless expanse
 This is enough—from hell to sky—
 If you should write—“He took a chance
 And lost—without an alibi.”