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By those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple host Who took the flag to-day Can tell the definition, So clear, of victory, As he, defeated, dying, On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Break, agonized and clear. By just such a hazard Hundreds have lost, indeed, But tens have won an all. Angels' breathless ballot Lingers to record thee; Imps in eager caucus Raffle for my soul. That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I 've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me. The martyrs even trod, Their feet upon temptation, Their faces upon God. A stately, shriven company; Convulsion playing round, Harmless as streaks of meteor Upon a plant's bound. Their faith the everlasting troth; Their expectation fair; The needle to the north degree Wades so, through polar air. XLVII They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable. Is Heaven an exchequer? They speak of what we owe; But that negotiation I 'm not a party to. And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost To take it. How sweet it would have tasted, Just a drop! Was God so economical? His table's spread too high for us Unless we dine on tip-toe. Crumbs fit such little mouths, Cherries suit robins; The eagle's golden breakfast Strangles them. God keeps his oath to sparrows, Who of little love Know how to starve! By climbing slow, By catching at the twigs that grow Between the bliss and me. It hung so high, As well the sky Attempt by strategy. I said I gained it,- This was all. Look, how I clutch it, Lest it fall, And I a pauper go; Unfitted by an instant's grace For the contented beggar's face I wore an hour ago. Is difficult to learn. 'T is not conferred by any, But possible to earn A pittance at a time, Until, to her surprise, The soul with strict economy Subsists till Paradise. A thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a fan Upon the slowest night. You cannot fold a flood And put it in a drawer,- Because the winds would find it out, And tell your cedar floor. |