Because the good of victory does not die,
As dies the failure’s curse,
And what we have to gain
Is, not one battle, but a weary life’s campaign. 
Yet meaner lot being sent
Should more than me content;
Yea, if I lie
Among vile shards, though born for silver wings,
In the strong flight and feathers gold
Of whatsoever heavenward mounts and sings
I must by admiration so comply
That there I should my own delight behold. 
Yea, though I sin each day times seven,
And dare not lift the fearfullest eyes to Heaven,
Thanks must I give
Because that seven times are not eight or nine,
And that my darkness is all mine,
And that I live
Within this oak-shade one more minute even,
Hearing the winds their Maker magnify.

XXII.  VICTORY IN DEFEAT.

Ah, God, alas,
How soon it came to pass
The sweetness melted from thy barbed hook
Which I so simply took;
And I lay bleeding on the bitter land,
Afraid to stir against thy least command,
But losing all my pleasant life-blood, whence
Force should have been heart’s frailty to withstand. 
Life is not life at all without delight,
Nor has it any might;
And better than the insentient heart and brain
Is sharpest pain;
And better for the moment seems it to rebel,
If the great Master, from his lifted seat,
Ne’er whispers to the wearied servant ‘Well!’
Yet what returns of love did I endure,
When to be pardon’d seem’d almost more sweet
Than aye to have been pure! 
But day still faded to disastrous night,
And thicker darkness changed to feebler light,
Until forgiveness, without stint renew’d,
Was now no more with loving tears imbued,
Vowing no more offence. 
Not less to thine Unfaithful didst thou cry,
’Come back, poor Child; be all as ‘twas before.’ 
But I,
’No, no; I will not promise any more! 
Yet, when I feel my hour is come to die,
And so I am secured of continence,
Then may I say, though haply then in vain,
“My only, only Love, O, take me back again!"’
   Thereafter didst thou smite
So hard that, for a space,
Uplifted seem’d Heav’n’s everlasting door,
And I indeed the darling of thy grace. 
But, in some dozen changes of the moon,
A bitter mockery seem’d thy bitter boon. 
The broken pinion was no longer sore. 
Again, indeed, I woke
Under so dread a stroke
That all the strength it left within my heart
Was just to ache and turn, and then to turn and ache,
And some weak sign of war unceasingly to make. 
And here I lie,
With no one near to mark,
Thrusting Hell’s phantoms feebly in the dark,
And still at point more utterly to die. 
O God, how long! 
Put forth indeed thy powerful right hand,
While time is yet,
Or never shall I see the blissful land! 
   Thus I:  then God, in pleasant speech and strong,