Defeat

 
This heart surrenders only to one who never called it to battle!


I tremble, tremble in the quivering of my own blood!
I am that flower whose petals belong to itself—not to wind, not to rain.
I am forged of that metal which is personal, unique, and impersonal.
I bow before myself alone,
if anyone stands before me to surpass me, that too is myself!


I have sought my own self for ages upon ages, found it at last
not by holding another's hand, not through incantation, but in my own sweat, my own understanding.
I am the body of that sturdy tree which weathers storms, holds back tempests
without bowing its head! Whatever growth belongs to this body-mind, my self has found its riches there.


Thus the days were passing in magnificent stride upon my own feet;
suddenly what storm came—a vine nourished by the distilled sap of my own body—frail, so frail,
wanting to live, grasped hold of another branch—of a greater tree.
Pride built through infinite labor crumbled in an instant at one fragile line of moss!