Emily Dickinson

Victory Comes Late

poem 690

Victory comes late And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost To take it How sweet it would have tasted Just a Drop Was God so economical? His Table’s spread too high for Us Unless We dine on tiptoe Crumbs fit such little mouths Cherries suit Robbins The Eagle’s Golden Breakfast strangles Them God keep His Oath to Sparrows Who of little Love know how to starve

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