" MOTHER , I read of heroes, kings,
Of folk with trappings, folk with wings;
Where live they, will they ever come
To see me in my little home?
Are there such beings, fair and wise,
And have they feet and hands and eyes? "

" My child, you saw but yesterday
A hero: when he came this way
You gave him scarce a single glance;
He wore no crown, he bore no lance,
He seemed but made of common clay.

" And just an hour ago, there stood
Before you — Oh, so great and good!
One who will sit with God for aye,
When the brief years are rolled away. "

" But, mother, in the books I read
They walk with kings, they do indeed;
How could they come and go, and I
Not know that they were passing by? "

" The tales are true, my dear, there be
Kings, heroes, saints, in history;
Romance and legend fitly tell
Of what they did, and what their spell;
Their deeds are bright like burnished gold,
In chronicles and records old. "

" How could I miss their being here? "

" They did not seem like saints, my dear,
Nor heroes, when they drew so near. "