Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 8
Chapter 41 of 146 · 1 min read
TRIUMPHANT.
Who never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind.
Who never climbed the weary league — Can such a foot explore The purple territories On Pizarro's shore?
How many legions overcome? The emperor will say. How many colors taken On Revolution Day?
How many bullets bearest? The royal scar hast thou? Angels, write "Promoted" On this soldier's brow!
IX.
THE TEST.
I can wade grief, Whole pools of it, — I 'm used to that. But the least push of joy Breaks up my feet, And I tip — drunken. Let no pebble smile, 'T was the new liquor, — That was all!
Power is only pain, Stranded, through discipline, Till weights will hang. Give balm to giants, And they 'll wilt, like men. Give Himmaleh, — They 'll carry him!
X.
ESCAPE.
I never hear the word "escape" Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude.
I never hear of prisons broad By soldiers battered down, But I tug childish at my bars, — Only to fail again!
XI.
COMPENSATION.
For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
For each beloved hour Sharp pittances of years, Bitter contested farthings And coffers heaped with tears.
XII.
THE MARTYRS.
Through the straight pass of suffering 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 planet's bound.
Their faith the everlasting troth; Their expectation fair; The needle to the north degree Wades so, through polar air.
