hands

Poetry: Failure

We are much bound to them that do succeed;
But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound
To such as fail. They all our loss expound;
They comfort us for work that will not speed,
And life--itself a failure. Aye, his deed,
Sweetest in story, who the dusk profound
Of Hades flooded with entrancing sound,
Music's own tears, was failure. Doth it read
Therefore the worse? Ah no! So much to dare,
He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne.--
So much to do; impetuous even there,
He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan--
He wins; but few for that his deed recall;
Its power is in the look which costs him all.

- Jean Ingelow
Indexing:

Posts from This Journal by “poetry” Tag

  • Poem: Twelfth Night

    It has always been King Herod that I feared; King Herod and his kinsmen, ever since ... I do not like the colour of your beard; I think that you are…

  • Third Sunday in Ephiphany

    Here is the little door, lift up the latch, oh lift! We need not wander more, but enter with our gift; Our gift of finest gold. Gold that was never…

  • Poem: Untrimming the Tree

    Now all that scintillation is a chore. What they so recently assembled Piece by piece in imitation Of every year for twenty years ago Each day…

Basically, everyone remembers a fail over a win. Isn't that the truth?