Poetry

Emily Dickinson (1830-1889)
Victory Comes Late 1861
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 Robins_
The Eagle’s Golden Breakfast strangles_ Them_
God keep His Oath to Sparrows_
Who of little Love_ Know how to starve_