My child, your hero may not be, In truth, a hero all the time; Remember, it must chance that he Shall still have rugged steeps to climb. Don't place him on too high a plane In fancy; then he will not fall In your esteem and may attain To something noble after all. My boy, don't think your sweetheart bears A halo on her golden hair; A crown of purity she wears, And you must help to keep it there. But she will have her trying moods, And be not always kind and sweet; These are life's nerving interludes— Sad pitfalls for unwary feet. You both are far from perfect yet, And quarrels will, unhaply, come— Both may be wrong; so don't forget, In anger's blind delirium, That sweet concessions each must make And tender promises renew; Or else a loving heart may break And sorrow come to dwell with you. |