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