Famous Short Triumph Poems
Famous Short Triumph Poems. Short Triumph Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Triumph short poems
by
Robinson Jeffers
The heroic stars spending themselves,
Coining their very flesh into bullets for the lost battle,
They must burn out at length like used candles;
And Mother Night will weep in her triumph, taking home her heroes.
There is the stuff for an epic poem--
This magnificent raid at the heart of darkness, this lost battle--
We don't know enough, we'll never know.
Oh happy Homer, taking the stars and the Gods for granted.
by
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Go! obedient to my call,
Turn to profit thy young days,
Wiser make betimes thy breast
In Fate's balance as it sways,
Seldom is the cock at rest;
Thou must either mount, or fall,
Thou must either rule and win,
Or submissively give in,
Triumph, or else yield to clamour:
Be the anvil or the hammer.
1789.
by
Emily Dickinson
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er 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!
by
Edwin Arlington Robinson
For what we owe to other days,
Before we poisoned him with praise,
May we who shrank to find him weak
Remember that he cannot speak.
For envy that we may recall,
And for our faith before the fall,
May we who are alive be slow
To tell what we shall never know.
For penance he would not confess,
And for the fateful emptiness
Of early triumph undermined,
May we now venture to be kind.
by
Robert Creeley
Whereas the man who hits
the gong dis-
proves it, in all its
simplicity --
Even so the attempt
makes for triumph, in
another man.
Likewise in love I
am not foolish or in-
competent. My method is not a
tenderness, but hope
defined.
by
William Butler Yeats
I did the dragon's will until you came
Because I had fancied love a casual
Improvisation, or a settled game
That followed if I let the kerchief fall:
Those deeds were best that gave the minute wings
And heavenly music if they gave it wit;
And then you stood among the dragon-rings.
I mocked, being crazy, but you mastered it
And broke the chain and set my ankles free,
Saint George or else a pagan Perseus;
And now we stare astonished at the sea,
And a miraculous strange bird shrieks at us.
by
Emily Dickinson
With sweetness unabated
Informed the hour had come
With no remiss of triumph
The autumn started home
Her home to be with Nature
As competition done
By influential kinsmen
Invited to return --
In supplements of Purple
An adequate repast
In heavenly reviewing
Her residue be past --
by
William Butler Yeats
Now all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honour bred, with one
Who, were it proved he lies,
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbours' eyes?
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.
by
Siegfried Sassoon
Let my soul, a shining tree,
Silver branches lift towards thee,
Where on a hallowed winter’s night
The clear-eyed angels may alight.
And if there should be tempests in
My spirit, let them surge like din
Of noble melodies at war;
With fervour of such blades of triumph as are
Flashed in white orisons of saints who go
On shafts of glory to the ecstasies they know.
by
Emily Dickinson
Death is the supple Suitor
That wins at last --
It is a stealthy Wooing
Conducted first
By pallid innuendoes
And dim approach
But brave at last with Bugles
And a bisected Coach
It bears away in triumph
To Troth unknown
And Kindred as responsive
As Porcelain.
by
Emily Dickinson
My Triumph lasted till the Drums
Had left the Dead alone
And then I dropped my Victory
And chastened stole along
To where the finished Faces
Conclusion turned on me
And then I hated Glory
And wished myself were They.
What is to be is best descried
When it has also been --
Could Prospect taste of Retrospect
The tyrannies of Men
Were Tenderer -- diviner
The Transitive toward.
A Bayonet's contrition
Is nothing to the Dead.
by
William Butler Yeats
Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind!
by
Emily Dickinson
Smiling back from Coronation
May be Luxury --
On the Heads that started with us --
Being's Peasantry --
Recognizing in Procession
Ones We former knew --
When Ourselves were also dusty --
Centuries ago --
Had the Triumph no Conviction
Of how many be --
Stimulated -- by the Contrast --
Unto Misery --
by
Emily Dickinson
Triumph -- may be of several kinds --
There's Triumph in the Room
When that Old Imperator -- Death --
By Faith
by
Ben Jonson
XXIX. ? TO SIR ANNUAL TILTER. TILTER, the most may admire thee, though not I ; And thou, right guiltless, may'st plead to it, Why ? For thy late sharp device. I say 'tis fit All brains, at times of triumph, should run wit : For then our water-conduits do run wine ; But that's put in, thou'lt say. Why, so is thine. [AJ Notes:put in...thine, playing on two different definitions of "put in": first, "interjected", second, "stored away". ]