Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 17
Chapter 98 of 146 · 1 min read
TRIUMPH.
Triumph may be of several kinds. There 's triumph in the room When that old imperator, Death, By faith is overcome.
There 's triumph of the finer mind When truth, affronted long, Advances calm to her supreme, Her God her only throng.
A triumph when temptation's bribe Is slowly handed back, One eye upon the heaven renounced And one upon the rack.
Severer triumph, by himself Experienced, who can pass Acquitted from that naked bar, Jehovah's countenance!
XVIII.
Pompless no life can pass away; The lowliest career To the same pageant wends its way As that exalted here. How cordial is the mystery! The hospitable pall A "this way" beckons spaciously, — A miracle for all!
XIX.
I noticed people disappeared, When but a little child, — Supposed they visited remote, Or settled regions wild.
Now know I they both visited And settled regions wild, But did because they died, — a fact Withheld the little child!
