THERE lived a man who raised his hand and said,
'I will be great!'
And through a long, long life he bravely knocked
At Fame's closed gate.
A son he left who, like his sire, strove
High place to win;--
Worn out, he died and, dying, left no trace
That he had been.
He also left a son, who, without care
Or planning how,
Bore the fair letters of a deathless fame
Upon his brow.
'Behold a genius, filled with fire divine!'
The people cried;
Not knowing that to make him what he was
Two men had died.
Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/inheritance-18/
