It might not be so difficult to lead the light brigade,
While the army cheered behind you, and the fifes and bugles played;
It might be rather easy, with the war-shriek in your ears,
To forget the bite of bullets and the taste of blood and tears.
But to be a scrubwoman, with four
Babies, or more,
Every day, every day setting your back
On the rack,
And all your reward forever not quite
A full bite
Of bread for your babies. Say!
In the heat of the day
You might be a hero to head a brigade,
But a hero like her? I'm afraid! I'm afraid!
It might be very feasible to force a great reform,
To saddle public passion and to ride upon the storm;
It might be somewhat simple to ignore the roar of wrath,
Because a second shout broke out to cheer you on your path.
But he who, alone and unknown, is true
To his view,
Unswerved by the crush of the mutton-browed,
Blatting crowd,
Unwon by the flabby-brained, blinking ease
Which he sees
Throned and anointed. Say!
At the height of the fray,
You might be the chosen to captain the throng:
But to stand all alone? How long? How long?