A Hero

He was so foolish, the poor lad,

    He made superior people smile

Who knew not of the wings he had

    Budding and growing all the while;

Nor that the laurel wreath was made

Already for his curly head.

Silly and childish in his ways;

    They said: "His future comes to naught."

His future! In the dreadful days

    When in a toil his feet were caught

He hacked his way to glory bright

Before his day went down in night.

He fretted wiser folk--small blame!

    Such futile, feeble brains were his.

Now we doff hats to hear his name,

    Ask pardon where his spirit is,

Because we never guessed him for

A hero in the disguise he wore.

It matters little how we live

    So long as we may greatly die.

Fashioned for great things, O forgive

    Our dullness in the days gone by!

Now glory wraps you like a cloak

From us, and all such common folk.

(September 1914)