They never crowned him, never dreamed his worth, <br />And let him go unlaurelled to the grave: <br />Hereafter there are guerdons for the brave, <br />Roses for martyrs who wear thorns on earth, <br />Balms for bruised hearts that languish in the dearth <br />Of human love. So let the grasses wave <br />Above him nameless. Little did he crave <br />Men's praises: modestly, with kindly mirth, <br />Not sad nor bitter, he accepted fate -- <br />Drank deep of life, knew books, and hearts of men, <br />Cities and camps, and war's immortal woe, <br />Yet bore through all (such virtue in him sate <br />His spirit is not whiter now than then) <br />A simple, loyal nature, pure as snow.<br /><br />Thomas Bailey Aldrich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/henry-howard-brownell/
