My portion is defeat to-day,
A paler luck than victory,
Less pæans, fewer bells—
The drums don’t follow me with tunes;
Defeat a something dumber means,
More difficult than bells.
‘Tis populous with bone and stain,
And men too straight to bend again,
And piles of solid moan,
And chips of blank in boyish eyes,
And shreds of prayer
And death’s surprise
Stamped visible in stone.
There’s something prouder
Over there—
The trumpets tell it in the air.
How different victory
To him who has it and
The One
Who to have had it
Would have been
Contenteder to die.
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