When I think sometimes of what wondrous fame
Hath fallen upon men of noisy deeds,
Of laurel flung for every drop that bleeds,
And grateful nations busy with a name,
I turn to those who, deaf to praise or blame,
Labor in silence for their brothers' needs,
Sowing in darkness those immortal seeds
One day to blossom in men's souls like flame.
Ah, these unrecognized, unhailed, denied,
These heroes of what land or age they be,
Who mutely anguish at the task undone,
These wonderful white Christs, not crucified
On a high place for all the world to see,—
But striving on, unnoted and alone!