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Of Tribulation, these are They,
Denoted by the White—
The Spangled Gowns, a lesser Rank
Of Victors—designate—
All these—did conquer—
But the ones who overcame most times—
Wear nothing commoner than Snow—
No Ornament, but Palms—
Surrender—is a sort unknown—
On this superior soil—
Defeat—an outgrown Anguish—
Remembered, as the Mile
Our panting Ankle barely passed—
When Night devoured the Road—
But we—stood whispering in the House—
And all we said—was "Saved"!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Kill Your Balm—and Its Odors Bless You
- To the bright east she flies,
- Mine enemy is growing old
- There comes a warning like a spy
- Fate Slew Him, But He Did Not Drop
