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This is my letter to the world, |
That never wrote to me, |
The simple news that Nature told, |
With tender majesty. |
Her message is committed |
To hands I cannot see; |
For love of her, sweet countrymen, |
Judge tenderly of me! |
Success is counted sweetest |
By those who ne'er succeed. |
To comprehend a nectar |
Requires sorest need. |
Not one of all the purple host |
Who took the flag to-day |
Can tell the definition, |
So clear, of victory, |
As he, defeated, dying, |
On whose forbidden ear |
The distant strains of triumph |
Break, agonized and clear! |
Our share of night to bear, |
Our share of morning, |
Our blank in bliss to fill, |
Our blank in scorning. |
Here a star, and there a star, |
Some lose their way. |
Here a mist, and there a mist, |
Afterwards -- day! |
ROUGE ET NOIR. |
Soul, wilt thou toss again? |
By just such a hazard |
Hundreds have lost, indeed, |
But tens have won an all. |
Angels' breathless ballot |
Lingers to record thee; |
Imps in eager caucus |
Raffle for my soul. |
ROUGE GAGNE. |
'T is so much joy! 'T is so much joy! |
If I should fail, what poverty! |
And yet, as poor as I |
Have ventured all upon a throw; |
Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so |
This side the victory! |
Life is but life, and death but death! |
Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath! |
And if, indeed, I fail, |
At least to know the worst is sweet. |
Defeat means nothing but defeat, |
No drearier can prevail! |
And if I gain, -- oh, gun at sea, |
Oh, bells that in the steeples be, |
At first repeat it slow! |
For heaven is a different thing |
Conjectured, and waked sudden in, |
And might o'erwhelm me so! |
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