The Truly Great

My father, who passed away a quarter century ago, was a study in contrasts. He had the method of an accountant (which he was by profession), yet the heart and soul of a romantic. Rummaging through his papers and clippings, I came across Keynes and Keats and his own collection of thoughts often. I seem to have got his proclivity for method for much of his own writing and clippings have been carefully preserved.
Last month, as I opened an old diary of his - which now is a hiding place for my daughter's pocket money - a little piece of paper fell out, yellowed with age. I picked it up carefully; it had the smell and the feel of another age, and the neat trimming of the paper could only have been from my Dad's sure hand. The paper had a short poem printed on it, written, alas, by an unknown author, whose style is most unusual, yet brilliantly maverick. The poem reads:
This I have learned at last
That gentleness
Is bred within the strong of heart
Those who possess
It wholly are not weak, but brave
Seeing life clear
They understand that arrogance
Is hidden fear.

My years have shown me that
Compassion mends
Wounds graven deep upon the soul
And comprehends
That valour is an empty thing
When born of hate;
And only those with tenderness
Are truly great.

I have read this many times since and it has helped me understand my father a little more. A quarter century after him, I can only label this better late than never.