OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the full clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud:
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run –
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!
This day is mine to mar or make,
God keep me strong and true,
Let me no erring by-path take,
No doubtful action do.
Grant me when the setting sun
This fleeting day shall end,
I may rejoice o’er something done,
Be richer by a friend.
Let all I meet along the way
Speak well of me to-night.
I would not have the humblest say
I’d hurt him by a slight.
Let there be something true and fine
When night slips down to tell
That I have lived this day of mine
Not selfishly, but well.
When things go wrong as they sometimes will.
When the rode Your trudging seems all up-hill.
When the funds are low and The debts are high.
When you want to smile, but have to sigh.
When care is pressing you down a bit, rest, if you must, but Don’t quit!!
Life is queer with its twist and turns, as every one of us
Sometime learn, and many a fellow turns about, when he might
Have won had he stuck it out.
Don’t give up, though the pace Seems slow,
you may succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than, it seems
to a paint and faltering man.
Often the struggler has given up
when might captures the victor’s cup.
And he learned too late when the night came down,
How close he was to the golden crown.
Success is failure turned inside out,
in a silver tint, in a cloud of doubt.
When you never can tell how close you are.
It may be near,When it seems afar.
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit,
It’s when things seem worst that you mustn’t quit.
The test of man is the fight that he makes.
The grit that he daily shows.
The way that he stands upon his feet.
And takes life’s numerous bumps and blows.
A coward can smile,
When there’s not to fear.
And nothing, his progress bars.
But it takes a man to stand and cheer.
While the other fellow stars.
It isn’t the victory after all,
But, the fight that a brother makes.
A man when driven against the wall,
takes the blows of fate.
With his head held high.
Bleeding, bruised, and pale!!
Is the man who will win, fate defied(in the by & by),
For he isn’t afraid to fail.
It is the bumps you get and the jolts you get
And the shocks that your courage stands
The horns of sorrow and vain regret
The prize that escapes your hands
That test your mettle and proves your worth
It isn’t the blows you deal
But the blows you take on the good old earth
That shows your stuff is real.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,–act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;–
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
