Classic Poem

God pity all the brave who go
The common way, and wear
No ribboned medals on their breasts,
No laurels in their hair.

God pity all the lonely folk
With griefs they do not tell,
Women waking in the night
And men dissembling well.

In common courage of the street
The crushed grape is the wine,
Wheat in the mill is daily bread
And given for a sign.

And who but God shall pity those
Who go so quietly
And smile upon us when we meet
And greet so pleasantly.