8/12/2019 Success is Counted Sweetest Poems

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Success is Counted Sweetest

Success is counted sweetestBy those who ne'er succeed.

To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host

Who took the Flag todayCan tell the definitionSo clear of Victory

As he defeated--dying--On whose forbidden earThe distant strains of triumphBurst agonized and clear!

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

"Hope" is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soulAnd sings the tune without the wordsAnd never stopsat all

And sweetestin the Galeis heardAnd sore must be the storm

That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm

I've heard it in the chillest landAnd on the strangest Sea

Yet, never, in Extremity,It asked a crumbof Me.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain (280)

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,And Mourners to and fro

Kept treading--treading--till it seemedThat Sense was breaking through--

And when they all were seated,

A Service, like a Drum--Kept beating--beating--till I thoughtMy Mind was going numb--

And then I heard them lift a BoxAnd creak across my SoulWith those same Boots of Lead, again,Then Space--began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,

And Being, but an Ear,And I, and Silence, some strange RaceWrecked, solitary, here--

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down--And hit a World, at every plunge,And Finished knowing--then--

After great pain, a formal feeling comes --

After great pain, a formal feeling comes --

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like TombsThe stiff Heart questions, was it He, that bore,And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round --Of Ground, or Air, or Ought --A Wooden wayRegardless grown,A Quartz contentment, like a stone --

This is the Hour of Lead --Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go

8/12/2019 Success is Counted Sweetest Poems

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Stopping in the woods in the snow

Walking down the woods,so cold, so thick.

I can see a little village,but they can't see me me through the heavy

night.

I'm walking and walkingin the heavy snow,trying to find my way

to get some hay.

Walked past a really big lake,so cold so frozen.I lost my way,

I couldn't find helpbut I knew help would find me.

The man came out of his small village,looking so big and so warm.

He spotted me,and took me inside.

So glad out of the heavy, cold snow.Inside near a fire place, wrapped in a blanket

with a cup of hot coco.

Departmental

An ant on the tableclothRan into a dormant moth

Of many times his size.He showed not the least surprise.

His business wasn't with such.He gave it scarcely a touch,

And was off on his duty run.Yet if he encountered oneOf the hive's enquiry squad

Whose work is to find out GodAnd the nature of time and space,He would put him onto the case.Ants are a curious race;One crossing with hurried tread

The body of one of their deadIsn't given a moment's arrest-

Seems not even impressed.But he no doubt reports to anyWith whom he crosses antennae,

And they no doubt reportTo the higher-up at court.

Then word goes forth in Formic:'Death's come to Jerry McCormic,Our selfless forager Jerry.

Will the special JanizaryWhose office it is to bury

The dead of the commissaryGo bring him home to his people.

Lay him in state on a sepal.Wrap him for shroud in a petal.Embalm him with ichor of nettle.

This is the word of your Queen.'And presently on the sceneAppears a solemn mortician;And taking formal position,With feelers calmly atwiddle,

Seizes the dead by the middle,And heaving him high in air,

Carries him out of there.No one stands round to stare.

It is nobody else's affairIt couldn't be called ungentleBut how thoroughly departmental