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!