The Flag

I lay a tattered flag before your feet
In sign of conquest. Conquerors ate proud
Of a rent flag: each mouth that cries aloud
Cries of a battle now twice won; defeat
Gives up the right to every victory.
It is my life: I bring it torn and Stained
Out of the battles I have lost and gained;
Once captured, won back from the enemy
At a great loss; yet, here I hold it Still,
My own, to render up as now I do;
I render it up joyfully to you,
Choosing defeat: do with it as you will.