VICTORY 
99 
 
 
 
VICTORY 
 
Ah, God !  that thou has made me thus, 
Content of nought, intent to attain 
The summits of hills amorous, 
The crests desired of all of us, 
 
By that fierce superflux of pain, 
That battling with strange enemies, 
The awful holocaust of gain, 
And golden rushing of men slain 
 
Before Thy throne, whose woven lies, 
Fixed by enchantment in the dome 
Of fiery aether, burn with eyes 
Insatiate of Paradise— 
 
Fixed, if the curse of brackish foam 
Upon the salt unpiteous sea 
Be fixed, or if the faith of Rome 
Shall find in hearts of men a home