Victory comes late
By Emily Dickinson
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
tip-toe.
Crumbs fit such
little mouths,
Cherries suit
robins;
The
eagle's golden breakfast
Strangles them.
God keeps his
oath to
sparrows,
Who of little
love
Know how to
starve!