Written on the Wall

Who said I had to fight? I never fought,
Because my arms were weak, and my soft hands
Were used to playing flute in marching bands
And working in pastels, which I was taught
By maiden aunts, who told me that they thought
The world was savage, but there must be lands
Of peace, where everybody understands
How beautiful is gentleness. Why not?

So sometimes I was beaten, not too much,
Not meanly – just a little now and then,
And I stood up as in a lion's den
To face each blow, embracing every touch,
And then they'd hand me back my cracking crutch,
Repeating, "Daniel! Now you are a man."