"The inscription reads: 'He was a poet.' Know you none of his poems?"
"We have never so much as heard of his poems."
"My eyes are dim; is there nothing carved beneath his name?"
One of the by-standers went up and knelt down close to the base.
"There was something here, but it is effaced by time Wait!" And tracing his finger slowly along, he read like a child;
"He—asked—but—for—the—common—lot.
"That is all," he cried, springing lightly up. "Oh, the dust on my knees?" he added with vexation.
"He may have sung very sweetly," pursued the old man.
"He may, indeed!" they answered, carelessly.
"But, sirs," continued he, with a sad smile, "perhaps you are the very generation that he looked to for the fame which his own denied him; perhaps he died believing that you would fully appreciate his poems."
"If so, it was a comfortable faith to die in," they said, laughing, in return. "He will never know that we did not. A few great poets have posthumous fame: we know them well enough." And they passed on.
"This," said the old man, as they paused elsewhere, "seems to be the monument of a true soldier: know you aught of the victories he helped to win?"
"He may not have helped to win any victories. He may have been a coward. How should we know? Epitaphs often lie. The dust is peopled with soldiers." And again they moved on.
