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
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)
