Classic Poem

You did not think to write your name
Across the jingle that has strayed
Down centuries—a song, a game
The tiny ones of earth have played.

By some swift sign they greet and know
Your solemn hero as a friend,
They hang upon his tale of woe,
And laugh—despite his tragic end.

A hundred times each day he dies,
Unaided by the King's good men;
And yet he lives in wondering eyes,
The small hands make him whole again.