In thinking about 9/11 yesterday, one of the uplifting things that came out of the horror was the heroism on many fronts: first responders, people who packed up whatever they could and drove as close as they could to help distribute food and water, people who came from far away to volunteer to remove rubble and look for survivors.

One of the outstanding themes of To Kill a Mockingbird (which I finished recently, so it is still on my mind) was the quiet, unassuming heroism of Atticus Finch, who took a stand and did the right thing, knowing it was going to cost him, knowing it was going to carry repercussions for his children, shielding them as much as he could, but encouraging them to stand strong and conduct themselves with respect and without bitterness no matter what anyone else did.

Some time ago I came across Edgar Guest’s “Heroes,” and I love the way he honors both those who do what we normally think of as heroic as well as those everyday people who do right no matter what the consequences.

There are different kinds of heroes, there are some you hear about.
They get their pictures printed, and their names the newsboys shout;
There are heroes known to glory that were not afraid to die
In the service of their country and to keep the flag on high;
There are brave men in the trenches, there are brave men on the sea,
But the silent, quiet heroes also prove their bravery.

I am thinking of a hero that was never known to fame,
Just a manly little fellow with a very common name;
He was freckle-faced and ruddy, but his head was nobly shaped,
And he one day took the whipping that his comrades all escaped.
And he never made a murmur, never whimpered in reply;
He would rather take the censure than to stand and tell a lie.

And I’m thinking of another that had courage that was fine,
And I’ve often wished in moments that such strength of will were mine.
He stood against his comrades, and he left them then and there
When they wanted him to join them in a deed that wasn’t fair.
He stood alone, undaunted, with his little head erect;
He would rather take the jeering than to lose his self-respect.

And I know a lot of others that have grown to manhood now,
Who have yet to wear the laurel that adorns the victor’s brow.
They have plodded on in honor through the dusty, dreary ways,
They have hungered for life’s comforts and the joys of easy days,
But they’ve chosen to be toilers, and in this their splendor’s told:
They would rather never have it than to do some things for gold.

— Edgar Guest

Enjoy more entries or join in the fun at Poetry Friday, hosted this week at Biblio File.