But that was no defeat. Defeat, my friend,Is a simple thing, and past your understanding.Defeat is no cry in the night, no sudden bandingTogether of men beleaguered, no comrade glance at the end ...
These are bold colours. Defeat is woven in grey ...Defeat is a little smile, a turning away.
Defeat is no rebel voice thrust down in a clamorous world,Nor the bitter cry of the heart that wastes its breath.Defeat is a courteous thing, more quiet than death.Defeat is the nameless banner not once unfurled.
For a vanquished horn may ring noble up cleft and hill,But defeat is deaf to music. Defeat lies still.
Over the Macedon heights cried they, "Thalatta -- the Sea --"Yet had they never won to the foam and the dragon-gold gleaming,Still had their hearts like prows furrowed some sea of dreaming,Still had their weary eyes envisioned an argosy.
But defeat is a blind man prone in a cleft of the sunburnt sands,And the waves not a bowshot away. But he sees not, nor understands.
