It Can Be Done - Joseph Morris
When the battle breaks against you and the crowd forgets to cheer
When the Anvil Chorus echoes with the essence of a jeer;
When the knockers start their panning in the knocker's nimble way
With a rap for all your errors and a josh upon your play--
There is one quick answer ready that will nail them on the wing;
There is one reply forthcoming that will wipe away the sting;
There is one elastic come-back that will hold them, as it should--
Make good.
No matter where you finish in the mix-up or the row,
There are those among the rabble who will pan you anyhow;
But the entry who is sticking and delivering the stuff
Can listen to the yapping as he giggles up his cuff;
The loafer has no come-back and the quitter no reply
When the Anvil Chorus echoes, as it will, against the sky;
But there's one quick answer ready that will wrap them in a hood--
Make good.
_Grantland Rice._
From "The Sportlight."
THE WORLD IS AGAINST ME
Babe Ruth doesn't complain that opposing pitchers try to strike him out;
he swings at the ball till he swats it for four bases. Ty Cobb doesn't
complain that whole teams work wits and muscles overtime to keep him
from stealing home; he pits himself against them all and comes galloping
or hurdling or sliding in. What other men can do any man can do if he
works long enough with a brave enough heart.
"The world is against me," he said with a sigh.
"Somebody stops every scheme that I try.
The world has me down and it's keeping me there;
I don't get a chance. Oh, the world is unfair!
When a fellow is poor then he can't get a show;
The world is determined to keep him down low."
"What of Abe Lincoln?" I asked. "Would you say
That he was much richer than you are to-day?
He hadn't your chance of making his mark,
And his outlook was often exceedingly dark;
Yet he clung to his purpose with courage most grim
And he got to the top. Was the world against him?
"What of Ben Franklin? I've oft heard it said
That many a time he went hungry to bed.
He started with nothing but courage to climb,
But patiently struggled and waited his time.
He dangled awhile from real poverty's limb,
Yet he got to the top. Was the world against him?
"I could name you a dozen, yes, hundreds, I guess,
Of poor boys who've patiently climbed to success;
All boys who were down and who struggled alone,
Who'd have thought themselves rich if your fortune they'd known;
Yet they rose in the world you're so quick to condemn,
And I'm asking you now, was the world against them?"
_Edgar A. Guest._
From "Just Folks."
SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH
In any large or prolonged enterprise we are likely to take too limited a
view of the progress we are making. The obstacles do not yield at some
given point; we therefore imagine we have made no headway. The poet here
uses three comparisons to show the folly of accepting this hasty and
partial evidence. A soldier may think, from the little part of the
battle he can see, that the day is going against him; but by holding his
ground stoutly he may help his comrades in another quarter to win the
victory. Successive waves may seem to rise no higher on the land, but
far back in swollen creek and inlet is proof that the tide is coming in.
As we look toward the east, we are discouraged at the slowness of
daybreak; but by looking westward we see the whole landscape illumined.
Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.
_Arthur Hugh Clough._
WORTH WHILE
A little boy whom his mother had rebuked for not turning a deaf ear to
temptation protested, with tears, that he had no deaf ear. But
temptation, even when heard, must somehow be resisted. Yea, especially
when heard! We deserve no credit for resisting it unless it comes to our
ears like the voice of the siren.
It is easy enough to be pleasant,
When life flows by like a song,
But the man worth while is one who will smile,
When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth,
Is the smile that shines through tears.
It is easy enough to be prudent,
When nothing tempts you to stray,
When without or within no voice of sin
Is luring your soul away;
But it's only a negative virtue
Until it is tried by fire,
And the life that is worth the honor on earth,
Is the one that resists desire.
By the cynic, the sad, the fallen,
Who had no strength for the strife,
The world's highway is cumbered to-day,
They make up the sum of life.
But the virtue that conquers passion,
And the sorrow that hides in a smile,
It is these that are worth the homage on earth
For we find them but once in a while.
_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._
From "Poems of Sentiment."
HOPE
Gloom and despair are really ignorance in another form. They fail to
reckon with the fact that what appears to be baneful often turns out to
be good. Lincoln lost the senatorship to Douglas and thought he had
ended his career; had he won the contest, he might have remained only a
senator. Life often has surprise parties for us. Things come to us
masked in gloom and black; but Time, the revealer, strips off the
disguise, and lo, what we have is blessings.
Never go gloomy, man with a mind,
Hope is a better companion than fear;
Providence, ever benignant and kind,
Gives with a smile what you take with a tear;
All will be right,
Look to the light.
Morning was ever the daughter of night;
All that was black will be all that is bright,
Cheerily, cheerily, then cheer up.
Many a foe is a friend in disguise,
Many a trouble a blessing most true,
Helping the heart to be happy and wise,
With love ever precious and joys ever new.
Stand in the van,
Strike like a man!
This is the bravest and cleverest plan;
Trusting in God while you do what you can.
Cheerily, cheerily, then cheer up.
_Anonymous._
I'M GLAD
I'm glad the sky is painted blue;
And the earth is painted green;
And such a lot of nice fresh air
All sandwiched in between.
_Anonymous._
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
The nautilus is a small mollusk that creeps upon the bottom of the sea,
though it used to be supposed to swim, or even to spread a kind of sail
so that the wind might drive it along the surface. What interests us in
this poem is the way the nautilus _grows_. Just as a tree when sawed
down has the record of its age in the number of its rings, so does the
nautilus measure its age by the ever-widening compartments of its shell.
These it has successively occupied. The poet, looking upon the now empty
shell, thinks of human life as growing in the same way. We advance from
one state of being to another, each nobler than the one which preceded
it, until the spirit leaves its shell altogether and attains a glorious
and perfect freedom.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sailed the unshadowed main,--
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,--
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
_Oliver Wendell Holmes._
PIPPA'S SONG
This little song vibrates with an optimism that embraces the whole
universe. A frequent error in quoting it is the substitution of the word
_well_ for _right_. Browning is no such shallow optimist as to believe
that all is well with the world, but he does maintain that things are
right with the world, for in spite of its present evils it is slowly
working its way toward perfection, and in the great scheme of things it
may make these evils themselves an instrument to move it toward its
ultimate goal.
The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his heaven--
All's right with the world.
_Robert Browning._
OWNERSHIP
The true value of anything lies, not in the object itself or in its
legal possession, but in our attitude to it. We may own a thing in fee
simple, yet derive from it nothing but vexation. For those who have
little, as indeed for those who have much, there are no surer means of
happiness than enjoying that which they do not possess. Emerson shows us
that two harvests may be gathered from every field--a material one by
the man who raised the crop, and an esthetic or spiritual one by
whosoever can see beauty or thrill with an inner satisfaction.
They ride in Packards, those swell guys,
While I can't half afford a Ford;
Choice fillets fill a void for them,
We've cheese and prunes the place I board;
They've smirking servants hanging round,
You'd guess by whom my shoes are shined.
But all the same I'm rich as they,
For ownership's a state of mind.
_They_ own, you say? Pshaw, they possess!
And what a fellow has, has him!
The rich can't stop and just enjoy
Their lawns and shrubs and house-fronts trim.
They're tied indoors and foot the bills;
I stroll or stray, as I'm inclined--
Possession was not meant for use,
But ownership's a state of mind.
The folks who have must try to keep
Against the thieves who swarm and steal;
They dare not stride, they mince along--
Their pavement's a banana peel.
Who owns, the jeweler or I,
Yon gems by window-bars confined?
Possession lies in locks and keys;
True ownership's a state of mind.
I own my office (I've a boss,
But so have all men--so has he);
The business is not mine, but yet
I own the whole blamed company;
Stockholders are less proud than I
When competition's auld lang syned.
What care I that the profit's theirs?
I have what counts--an owner's mind.
The pretty girls I meet are mine
(I do not choose to tell them so);
I own the flowers, the trees, the birds;
I own the sunshine and the snow;
I own the block, I own the town--
The smiles, the songs of humankind.
For ownership is how you feel;
It's just a healthy state of mind.
_St. Clair Adams._
A SMILING PARADOX
Good nature or ill is like the loaves and fishes. The more we give away,
the more we have.
I've squandered smiles to-day,
And, strange to say,
Altho' my frowns with care I've stowed away,
To-night I'm poorer far in frowns than at the start;
While in my heart,
Wherein my treasures best I store,
I find my smiles increased by several score.
_John Kendrick Bangs._
From "Songs of Cheer."
THE NEW DUCKLING
There are people who, without having anything exceptional in their
natures or purposes or visions, yet try to be different for the sake of
being different. They are not content to be what they are; they wish to
be "utterly other." Of course they are hollow, artificial, insincere;
moreover they are nuisances. Their very foundations are wrong ones. Be
_yourself_ unless you're a fool; in that case, of course, try to be
somebody else.
"I want to be new," said the duckling.
"O ho!" said the wise old owl,
While the guinea-hen cluttered off chuckling
To tell all the rest of the fowl.
"I should like a more elegant figure,"
That child of a duck went on.
"I should like to grow bigger and bigger,
Until I could swallow a swan.
"I _won't_ be the bond slave of habit,
I _won't_ have these webs on my toes.
I want to run round like a rabbit,
A rabbit as red as a rose.
"I _don't_ want to waddle like mother,
Or quack like my silly old dad.
I want to be utterly other,
And _frightfully_ modern and mad."
"Do you know," said the turkey, "you're quacking!
There's a fox creeping up thro' the rye;
And, if you're not utterly lacking,
You'll make for that duck-pond. Good-bye!"
But the duckling was perky as perky.
"Take care of your stuffing!" he called.
(This was horribly rude to a turkey!)
"But you aren't a real turkey," he bawled.
"You're an Early-Victorian Sparrow!
A fox is more fun than a sheep!
I shall show that _my_ mind is not narrow
And give him my feathers--to keep."
Now the curious end of this fable,
So far as the rest ascertained,
Though they searched from the barn to the stable,
Was that _only his feathers remained._
So he _wasn't_ the bond slave of habit,
And he _didn't_ have webs on his toes;
And _perhaps_ he runs round like a rabbit,
A rabbit as red as a rose.
_Alfred Noyes._
From "Collected Poems."
CAN YOU SING A SONG?
Nothing lifts the spirit more than a song, especially the _inward_ song
of a worker who can sound it alike at the beginning of his task, in the
heat of midday, and in the weariness and cool of the evening.
Can you sing a song to greet the sun,
Can you cheerily tackle the work to be done,
Can you vision it finished when only begun,
Can you sing a song?
Can you sing a song when the day's half through,
When even the thought of the rest wearies you,
With so little done and so much to do,
Can you sing a song?
Can you sing a song at the close of the day,
When weary and tired, the work's put away,
With the joy that it's done the best of the pay,
Can you sing a song?
_Joseph Morris._
KNOW THYSELF
It seems impossible that human beings could endure so much until we
realize that they _have_ endured it. The spirit of man performs
miracles; it transcends the limitations of flesh and blood. It is like
Uncle Remus's account of Brer Rabbit climbing a tree. "A rabbit couldn't
do that," the little boy protested. "He did," Uncle Remus responded; "he
was jes' 'bleeged to."
Reined by an unseen tyrant's hand,
Spurred by an unseen tyrant's will,
Aquiver at the fierce command
That goads you up the danger hill,
You cry: "O Fate, O Life, be kind!
Grant but an hour of respite--give
One moment to my suffering mind!
I can not keep the pace and live."
But Fate drives on and will not heed
The lips that beg, the feet that bleed.
Drives, while you faint upon the road,
Drives, with a menace for a goad;
With fiery reins of circumstance
Urging his terrible advance
The while you cry in your despair,
"The pain is more than I can bear!"
Fear not the goad, fear not the pace,
Plead not to fall from out the race--
It is your own Self driving you,
Your Self that you have never known,
Seeing your little self alone.
Your Self, high-seated charioteer,
Master of cowardice and fear,
Your Self that sees the shining length
Of all the fearful road ahead,
Knows that the terrors that you dread
Are pigmies to your splendid strength;
Strength you have never even guessed,
Strength that has never needed rest.
Your Self that holds the mastering rein,
Seeing beyond the sweat and pain
And anguish of your driven soul,
The patient beauty of the goal!
Fighting upon the terror field
Where man and Fate came breast to breast,
Prest by a thousand foes to yield,
Tortured and wounded without rest,
You cried: "Be merciful, O Life--
The strongest spirit soon must break
Before this all-unequal strife,
This endless fight for failure's sake!"
But Fate, unheeding, lifted high
His sword, and thrust you through to die,
And then there came one strong and great,
Who towered high o'er Chance and Fate,
Who bound your wound and eased your pain
And bade you rise and fight again.
And from some source you did not guess
Gushed a great tide of happiness--
A courage mightier than the sun--
You rose and fought and, fighting, won!
It was your own Self saving you,
Your Self no man has ever known,
Looking on flesh and blood alone.
That Self that lives so close to God
As roots that feed upon the sod.
That one who stands behind the screen,
Looks through the window of your eyes--
A being out of Paradise.
The Self no human eye has seen,
The living one who never tires,
Fed by the deep eternal fires.
Your flaming Self, with two-edged sword,
Made in the likeness of the Lord,
Angel and guardian at the gate,
Master of Death and King of Fate!
_Angela Morgan._
From "The Hour Has Struck."
JUST WHISTLE
There is a psychological benefit in the mere physical act of whistling.
When the body makes music, the spirit falls into harmonies too and the
discords that assail us cease to make themselves heard.
When times are bad an' folks are sad
An' gloomy day by day,
Jest try your best at lookin' glad
An' whistle 'em away.
Don't mind how troubles bristle,
Jest take a rose or thistle.
Hold your own
An' change your tone
An' whistle, whistle, whistle!
A song is worth a world o' sighs.
When red the lightnings play,
Look for the rainbow in the skies
An' whistle 'em away.
Don't mind how troubles bristle,
The rose comes with the thistle.
Hold your own
An' change your tone
An' whistle, whistle, whistle!
Each day comes with a life that's new,
A strange, continued story
But still beneath a bend o' blue
The world rolls on to glory.
Don't mind how troubles bristle,
Jest take a rose or thistle.
Hold your own
An' change your tone
An' whistle, whistle, whistle!
_Frank L. Stanton._
[Illustration: GRANTLAND RICE]
"MIGHT HAVE BEEN"
"Yes, it's pretty hard," the optimistic old woman admitted. "I have to
get along with only two teeth, one in the upper jaw and one in the
lower--but thank God, they meet."
Here's to "The days that might have been";
Here's to "The life I might have led";
The fame I might have gathered in--
The glory ways I might have sped.
Great "Might Have Been," I drink to you
Upon a throne where thousands hail--
And then--there looms another view--
I also "might have been" in jail.
O "Land of Might Have Been," we turn
With aching hearts to where you wait;
Where crimson fires of glory burn,
And laurel crowns the guarding gate;
We may not see across your fields
The sightless skulls that knew their woe--
The broken spears--the shattered shields--
That "might have been" as truly so.
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen"--
So wails the poet in his pain--
The saddest are, "It might have been,"
And world-wide runs the dull refrain.
The saddest? Yes--but in the jar
This thought brings to me with its curse,
I sometimes think the gladdest are
"It might have been a blamed sight worse."
_Grantland Rice._
From "The Sportlight."
THE ONE
In our youth we picture ourselves as we will be in the future--not mere
types of this or that kind of success, but above all and in all, Ideal
Men. Then come the years and the struggles, and we are buffeted and
baffled, and our very ideal is eclipsed. But others have done better
than we. Weary and harassed, they yet embody our visions. And we, if we
are worth our salt, do not envy them when we see them. Nor should we
grow dispirited. Rather should we rejoice in their triumph, rejoice that
our dreams were not impossibilities, take courage to strive afresh for
that which we know is best.
I knew his face the moment that he passed
Triumphant in the thoughtless, cruel throng,--
Triumphant, though the quiet, tired eyes
Showed that his soul had suffered overlong.
And though across his brow faint lines of care
Were etched, somewhat of Youth still lingered there.
I gently touched his arm--he smiled at me--
He was the Man that Once I Meant to Be!
Where I had failed, he'd won from life, Success;
Where I had stumbled, with sure feet he stood;
Alike--yet unalike--we faced the world,
And through the stress he found that life was good
And I? The bitter wormwood in the glass,
The shadowed way along which failures pass!
Yet as I saw him thus, joy came to me--
He was the Man that Once I Meant to Be!
I knew him! And I knew he knew me for
The man HE might have been. Then did his soul
Thank silently the gods that gave him strength
To win, while I so sorely missed the goal?
He turned, and quickly in his own firm hand
He took my own--the gulf of Failure spanned, ...
And that was all--strong, self-reliant, free,
He was the Man that Once I Meant to Be!
We did not speak. But in his sapient eyes
I saw the spirit that had urged him on,
The courage that had held him through the fight
Had once been mine, I thought, "Can it be gone?"
He felt that unasked question--felt it so
His pale lips formed the one-word answer, "No!"
* * * * *
Too late to win? No! Not too late for me--
He is the Man that Still I Mean to Be!
_Everard Jack Appleton._
From "The Quiet Courage."
THE JOY OF LIVING
Men too often act as if life were nothing more than hardships to be
endured and difficulties to be overcome. They look upon what is happy or
inspiring with eyes that really fail to see. As Wordsworth says of Peter
Bell,
"A primrose by the river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more."
But to stop now and then and realize that the world is fresh and buoyant
and happy, will do much to keep the spirit young. We should be glad that
we are alive, should tell ourselves often in the words of Charles Lamb:
"I am in love with this green earth."
The south wind is driving
His splendid cloud-horses
Through vast fields of blue.
The bare woods are singing,
The brooks in their courses
Are bubbling and springing
And dancing and leaping,
The violets peeping.
I'm glad to be living:
Aren't you?
_Gamaliel Bradford._
THERE WILL ALWAYS BE SOMETHING TO DO
An old lady, famous for her ability to find in other people traits that
she could commend, was challenged to say a good word for the devil.
After a moment's hesitation she answered, "You must at least give him
credit for being industrious." Perhaps it is this superactivity of Satan
that causes beings less wickedly inclined to have such scope for the
exercise of their qualities. Certain it is that nobody need hang back
from want of something to do, to promote, to assail, to protect, to
endure, or to sympathize with.
There will always be something to do, my boy;
There will always be wrongs to right;
There will always be need for a manly breed
And men unafraid to fight.
There will always be honor to guard, my boy;
There will always be hills to climb,
And tasks to do, and battles new
From now till the end of time.
There will always be dangers to face, my boy;
There will always be goals to take;
Men shall be tried, when the roads divide,
And proved by the choice they make.
There will always be burdens to bear, my boy;
There will always be need to pray;
There will always be tears through the future years,
As loved ones are borne away.
There will always be God to serve, my boy,
And always the Flag above;
They shall call to you until life is through
For courage and strength and love.
So these are things that I dream, my boy,
And have dreamed since your life began:
That whatever befalls, when the old world calls,
It shall find you a sturdy man.