A Hero

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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.

© Katharine Tynan