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Poem by Katharine Tynan
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.
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