POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
LXXIX
OF tribulation these are theyDenoted by the white;The spangled gowns, a lesser rankOf victors designate.
All these did conquer; but the onesWho overcame most timesWear nothing commoner than snow,No ornament but palms.
Surrender is a sort unknownOn this superior soil;Defeat, an outgrown anguish,Remembered as the mile
Our panting ankle barely gainedWhen night devoured the road;But we stood whispering in the house,And all we said was “Saved!”
LXXX
I THINK just how my shape will riseWhen I shall be forgiven,Till hair and eyes and timid headAre out of sight, in heaven.
I think just how my lips will weighWith shapeless, quivering prayerThat you, so late, consider me,The sparrow of your care.
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