POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
Defeat whets victory, they say;The reefs in old Gethsemane Endear the shore beyond.’T is beggars banquets best define;’T is thirsting vitalizes wine,— Faith faints to understand.
LI
IT tossed and tossed,—A little brig I knew,—O’ertook by blast,It spun and spun,And groped delirious, for morn.
It slipped and slipped,As one that drunken stepped;Its white foot tripped,Then dropped from sight.
Ah, brig, good-nightTo crew and you;The ocean’s heart too smooth, too blue,To break for you.
LII
VICTORY comes late,And is held low to freezing lipsToo rapt with frostTo take it.
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