 | Poems |  |
TRIUMPH.
Not he who rides through conquered city's gate,
At head of blazoned hosts, and to the sound
Of victors' trumpets, in full pomp and state
Of war, the utmost pitch has dreamed or found
To which the thrill of triumph can be wound;
Nor he, who by a nation's vast acclaim
Is sudden sought and singled out alone,
And while the people madly shout his name,
Without a conscious purpose of his own,
Is swung and lifted to the nation's throne;
At head of blazoned hosts, and to the sound
Of victors' trumpets, in full pomp and state
Of war, the utmost pitch has dreamed or found
To which the thrill of triumph can be wound;
Nor he, who by a nation's vast acclaim
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And while the people madly shout his name,
Without a conscious purpose of his own,
Is swung and lifted to the nation's throne;
But he who has all single-handed stood
With foes invisible on every side,
And, unsuspected of the multitude,
The force of fate itself has dared, defied,
And conquered silently.
Ah that soul knows
In what white heat the blood of triumph glows!
With foes invisible on every side,
And, unsuspected of the multitude,
The force of fate itself has dared, defied,
And conquered silently.
Ah that soul knows
In what white heat the blood of triumph glows!
| Poems | |