I have been trying to escape with a little poetry every day, spending time with The Oxford Book of American Poetry, which Merritt was nice enough to give me as a gift, after I gave him the same last Christmas and then admired it with a covetous eye.
It has been fun reconnecting with some of my favorites, but also discovering many new poets, some of which form an instant bond, and others that make it easy for me to move on to the next. This morning it was Emily Dickinson, an unlikely poet. A recluse who rarely left her homestead during her adult years, she cultivated an unorthodox style and a wry sense of humor which provides occasional respite from her ironical and melancholic observations and general preoccupation with illness and death. Here's a few that provoked my thoughts this morning:
Success is Counted Sweetest
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'r succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of Victory
As he defeated--dying--
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear.
1859
Fame is a Bee
Fame is a bee.
It has a song--
It has a sting--
Ah, too, it has a wing.
I think "Success is Counted Sweetest" is a fantastic poem. I read it for the first time a few months ago and it has lingered in my memory ever since.
ReplyDeleteI can't say that I'm entirely convinced of its truth, but it's a powerful thought all the same and the delivery is brilliant.