My Portion is Defeat—today— A paler luck than Victory— Less Paeans—fewer Bells— The Drums don’t follow Me—with tunes— Defeat—a somewhat slower—means— More Arduous than *****—
’Tis populous with Bone and stain— And Men too straight to stoop again—, And Piles of solid Moan— And Chips of Blank—in Boyish Eyes— And scraps of Prayer— And Death’s surprise, Stamped visible—in Stone—
There’s somewhat prouder, over there— The Trumpets tell it to the Air— How different Victory To Him who has it—and the One Who to have had it, would have been Contender—to die—
