They are the proudest who have met defeat,
They are the proudest who must walk alone,
Cherishing the vanquished and the sweet,
Remembering blossoms broken on a stone.
Go softly, you who have no loss to weep,
Who sink at night to deep, untroubled rest,
And envy the defeated who must keep
The ghost of beauty in an empty breast.
FRANCES M. FROST