It Can Be Done - Joseph Morris
Here's to the men who lose!
The ready plaudits of a fawning world
Ring sweet in victor's ears;
The vanquished's banners never are unfurled--
For them there sound no cheers.
Here's to the men who lose!
The touchstone of true worth is not success;
There is a higher test--
Though fate may darkly frown, onward to press,
And bravely do one's best.
Here's to the men who lose!
It is the vanquished's praises that I sing,
And this is the toast I choose:
"A hard-fought failure is a noble thing;
Here's to the men who lose!"
_Anonymous._
IT MAY BE
Many, many are the human struggles in which we can lend no aid. But if
we cannot help, at least we need not hinder.
It may be that you cannot stay
To lend a friendly hand to him
Who stumbles on the slippery way,
Pressed by conditions hard and grim;
It may be that you dare not heed
His call for help, because you lack
The strength to lift him, but you need
Not push him back.
It may be that he has not won
The right to hope for your regard;
He may in folly have begun
The course that he has found so hard;
It may be that your fingers bleed,
That Fortune turns a bitter frown
Upon your efforts, but you need
Not kick him down.
_S.E. Kiser._
LIFE
In life is necessarily much monotony, sameness. But our triumph may lie
in putting richness and meaning into routine that apparently lacks them.
Forenoon and afternoon and night,--Forenoon,
And afternoon, and night,--Forenoon, and--what!
The empty song repeats itself. No more?
Yea, that is Life: make this forenoon sublime,
This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer,
And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won.
_Edward Rowland Sill._
From "Poems."
THE GRUMPY GUY
When students came, full of ambition, to the great scientist Agassiz, he
gave each a fish and told him to find out what he could about it. They
went to work and in a day or two were ready for their report. But
Agassiz didn't come round. To kill time they went to work again,
observed, dissected, conjectured, and when at the end of a fortnight
Agassiz finally appeared, they felt that their knowledge was really
exhaustive. The master's brief comment was that they had made a fair
beginning, and again he left. They then fell to in earnest and after
weeks and months of investigation declared that a fish was the most
fascinating of studies. If our interest in life fails, it is not from
material to work on. No two leaves are alike, not two human beings are
alike, and if we are discerning, the attraction of any one of them is
infinite.
The Grumpy Guy was feeling blue; the Grumpy Guy was glum;
The Grumpy Guy with baleful eye took Misery for a chum.
He hailed misfortunes as his pals, and murmured, "Let 'em come!"
"Oh, what's the blooming use?" he yelped, his face an angry red,
"When everything's been thought before and everything's been said?
And what's a Grumpy Guy to do except to go to bed?
"And where's the joy the poets sing, the merriment and fun?
How can one start a thing that's new when everything's begun?--
When everything's been planned before and everything's been done?--
"When everything's been dreamed before and everything's been sought?
When everything that ever ran has, so to speak, been caught?--
When every game's been played before and every battle fought?"
I started him at solitaire, a fooling, piffling game.
He played it ninety-seven hours and failed to find it tame.
In all the times he dealt the cards no two games were the same.
He never tumbled to its tricks nor mastered all its curves.
He grunted, "Well, this takes the cake, the pickles and preserves!
Its infinite variety is getting on my nerves."
"Its infinite variety!" I scoffed. "Just fifty-two
Poor trifling bits of pasteboard!--their combinations few
Compared to what there is in man!--the poorest!--even you!
"Variety! You'll never find in forty-seven decks
One tenth of the variety found in the gentler sex.
Card combinations are but frills to hang around their necks.
"The sun won't rise to-morrow as it came to us to-day,
'Twill be older, we'll be older, and to Time this debt we pay.
For nothing can repeat itself, for nothing knows the way."
Then the Grumpy Guy was silent as a miser hoarding pelf.
He knew 'twas time to put his grouch away upon the shelf.
And so he did.--You see, I was just talking to myself!
_Griffith Alexander._
From "The Pittsburg Dispatch."
THE FIGHTER
If life were all easy, we should degenerate into weaklings--into human
mush. It is the fighting spirit that makes us strong. Nor do any of us
lack for a chance to exercise this spirit. Struggle is everywhere; as
Kearny said at Fair Oaks, "There is lovely fighting along the whole
line."
I fight a battle every day
Against discouragement and fear;
Some foe stands always in my way,
The path ahead is never clear!
I must forever be on guard
Against the doubts that skulk along;
I get ahead by fighting hard,
But fighting keeps my spirit strong.
I hear the croakings of Despair,
The dark predictions of the weak;
I find myself pursued by Care,
No matter what the end I seek;
My victories are small and few,
It matters not how hard I strive;
Each day the fight begins anew,
But fighting keeps my hopes alive.
My dreams are spoiled by circumstance,
My plans are wrecked by Fate or Luck;
Some hour, perhaps, will bring my chance,
But that great hour has never struck;
My progress has been slow and hard,
I've had to climb and crawl and swim,
Fighting for every stubborn yard,
But I have kept in fighting trim.
I have to fight my doubts away,
And be on guard against my fears;
The feeble croaking of Dismay
Has been familiar through the years;
My dearest plans keep going wrong,
Events combine to thwart my will,
But fighting keeps my spirit strong,
And I am undefeated still!
_S.E. Kiser._
From "The New York American."
[Illustration: SAMUEL ELLSWORTH KISER]
TO YOUTH AFTER PAIN
Since pain is the lot of all, we cannot hope to escape it. Since only
through pain can we come into true and helpful sympathy with men, we
should not wish to escape it.
What if this year has given
Grief that some year must bring,
What if it hurt your joyous youth,
Crippled your laughter's wing?
You always knew it was coming,
Coming to all, to you,
They always said there was suffering--
Now it is done, come through.
Even if you have blundered,
Even if you have sinned,
Still is the steadfast arch of the sky
And the healing veil of the wind....
And after only a little,
A little of hurt and pain,
You shall have the web of your own old dreams
Wrapping your heart again.
Only your heart can pity
Now, where it laughed and passed,
Now you can bend to comfort men,
One with them all at last,
You shall have back your laughter,
You shall have back your song,
Only the world is your brother now,
Only your soul is strong!
_Margaret Widdemer._
From "The Old Road to Paradise."
CAN'T
A great, achieving soul will not clog itself with a cowardly thought or
a cowardly watchword. Cardinal Richelieu in Bulwer-Lytton's play
declares:
"In the lexicon of youth, which fate reserves
For a bright manhood, there is no such word
As 'fail.'"
"Impossible," Napoleon is quoted as saying, "is a word found only in the
dictionary of fools."
_Can't_ is the worst word that's written or spoken;
Doing more harm here than slander and lies;
On it is many a strong spirit broken,
And with it many a good purpose dies.
It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each morning
And robs us of courage we need through the day:
It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning
And laughs when we falter and fall by the way.
_Can't_ is the father of feeble endeavor,
The parent of terror and half-hearted work;
It weakens the efforts of artisans clever,
And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk.
It poisons the soul of the man with a vision,
It stifles in infancy many a plan;
It greets honest toiling with open derision
And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a man.
_Can't_ is a word none should speak without blushing;
To utter it should be a symbol of shame;
Ambition and courage it daily is crushing;
It blights a man's purpose and shortens his aim.
Despise it with all of your hatred of error;
Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain;
Arm against it as a creature of terror,
And all that you dream of you some day shall gain.
_Can't_ is the word that is foe to ambition,
An enemy ambushed to shatter your will;
Its prey is forever the man with a mission
And bows but to courage and patience and skill.
Hate it, with hatred that's deep and undying,
For once it is welcomed 'twill break any man;
Whatever the goal you are seeking, keep trying
And answer this demon by saying: "I _can_."
_Edgar A. Guest._
From "A Heap o' Livin'."
THE STRUGGLE
We all dream of being St. Georges and fighting dragons amid glamor and
glory and the applause of the world. But our real fights are mostly
commonplace, routine battles, where no great victory is ours at the end
of the day. To persist in them requires quiet strength and unfaltering
courage.
Did you ever want to take your two bare hands,
And choke out of the world your big success?
Beat, torn fists bleeding, pathways rugged, grand,
By sheer brute strength and bigness, nothing less?
So at the last, triumphant, battered, strong,
You might gaze down on what you choked and beat,
And say, "Ah, world, you've wrought to do me wrong;
And thus have I accepted my defeat."
Have you ever dreamed of virile deeds, and vast,
And then come back from dreams with wobbly knees,
To find your way (the braver vision past),
By picking meekly at typewriter keys;
By bending o'er a ledger, day by day,
By some machine-like drudging? No great woe
To grapple with. Slow, painful is the way,
And still, the bravest fight and conquer so.
_Miriam Teichner._
HOLD FAST
A football coach who told his players that their rivals were too strong
for them would be seeking a new position the next year. If the opposing
team is formidable, he says so; if his men have their work cut out for
them, he admits it; but he mentions these things as incitements to
effort. Merely saying of victory that it can be won is among the surest
ways of winning it.
When you're nearly drowned in trouble, and the world is dark as ink;
When you feel yourself a-sinking 'neath the strain,
And you think, "I've got to holler 'Help!'" just take another breath
And pretend you've lost your voice--and can't complain!
(That's the idea!)
Pretend you've lost your voice and can't complain!
When the future glowers at you like a threatening thunder cloud,
Just grit your teeth and bend your head and say:
"It's dark and disagreeable and I can't help feeling blue,
But there's coming sure as fate a brighter day!"
(Say it slowly!)
"But there's coming sure as fate, a brighter day!"
You have bluffed your way through ticklish situations; that I know.
You are looking back on troubles past and gone;
Now, turn the tables, and as you have fought and won before,
Just BLUFF YOURSELF to keep on holding on!
(Try it once.)
Just bluff YOURSELF to keep on--holding on.
Don't worry if the roseate hues of life are faded out,
Bend low before the storm and wait awhile.
The pendulum is bound to swing again and you will find
That you have not forgotten how to smile.
(That's the truth!)
That you have not forgotten how to smile.
_Everard Jack Appleton._
From "The Quiet Courage."
[Illustration: JOHN KENDRICK BANGS]
WILL
Warren Hastings resolved in his boyhood that he would be the owner of
the estate known as Daylesford. This was the one great purpose that
unified his varied and far-reaching activities. Admire him or not, we
must at least praise his pluck in holding to his purpose--a purpose he
ultimately attained.
You will be what you will to be;
Let failure find its false content
In that poor word "environment,"
But spirit scorns it, and is free.
It masters time, it conquers space,
It cowes that boastful trickster Chance,
And bids the tyrant Circumstance
Uncrown and fill a servant's place.
The human Will, that force unseen,
The offspring of a deathless Soul,
Can hew the way to any goal,
Though walls of granite intervene.
Be not impatient in delay,
But wait as one who understands;
When spirit rises and commands
The gods are ready to obey.
The river seeking for the sea
Confronts the dam and precipice,
Yet knows it cannot fail or miss;
_You will be what you will to be!_
_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._
From "Poems of Power."
THE GAME
Lessing said that if God should come to him with truth in one hand and
the never-ending pursuit of truth in the other, and should offer him his
choice, he would humbly and reverently take the pursuit of truth.
Perhaps it is best that finite beings should not attain infinite
success. But however remote that for which they seek or strive, they may
by their diligence and generosity make the very effort to secure it
noble. In doing this they earn, as Pope tells us, a truer commendation
than success itself could bring them. "Act well thy part; there all the
honor lies."
Let's play it out--this little game called Life,
Where we are listed for so brief a spell;
Not just to win, amid the tumult rife,
Or where acclaim and gay applauses swell;
Nor just to conquer where some one must lose,
Or reach the goal whatever be the cost;
For there are other, better ways to choose,
Though in the end the battle may be lost.
Let's play it out as if it were a sport
Wherein the game is better than the goal,
And never mind the detailed "score's" report
Of errors made, if each with dauntless soul
But stick it out until the day is done,
Not wasting fairness for success or fame,
So when the battle has been lost or won,
The world at least can say: "He played the game."
Let's play it out--this little game called Work,
Or War or Love or what part each may draw;
Play like a man who scorns to quit or shirk
Because the break may carry some deep flaw;
Nor simply holding that the goal is all
That keeps the player in the contest staying;
But stick it out from curtain rise to fall,
As if the game itself were worth the playing.
_Grantland Rice._
From "The Sportlight."
COURAGE
The philosopher Kant held himself to his habits so precisely that people
set their watches by him as he took his daily walk. We may be equally
constant amid worldly vicissitudes, but only a man of true courage is.
'Tis the front towards life that matters most--
The tone, the point of view,
The constancy that in defeat
Remains untouched and true;
For death in patriot fight may be
Less gallant than a smile,
And high endeavor, to the gods,
Seems in itself worth while!
_Florence Earle Coates._
From "Poems."
A GOOD NAME
We should respect the good name of other people, and should safeguard
our own by a high sense of honor. At the close of the Civil War a
representative of an insurance company offered Robert E. Lee the
presidency of the firm at a salary of $50,000 a year. Lee replied that
while he wished to earn his living, he doubted whether his services
would be worth so large a sum. "We don't want your services," the man
interrupted; "we want your name." "That," said Lee, quietly, "is not for
sale." He accepted, instead, the presidency of a college at $1500 a
year.
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
_William Shakespeare._
SWELLITIS
A certain employer of large numbers of men makes it a principle to
praise none of them, not because they are undeserving, and not because
he dislikes to commend, but because experience has taught him that
usually the praise goes to the head of the recipient, both impairing his
work and making it harder for others to associate with him. A good test
of a man is his way of taking commendation. He may, even while grateful,
be stirred to humility that he has not done better still, and may
resolve to accomplish more. Or imitating the frog who wished to look
like an ox, he may swell and swell until--figuratively speaking--he
bursts.
Somebody said he'd done it well,
And presto! his head began to swell;
Bigger and bigger the poor thing grew--
A wonder it didn't split in two.
In size a balloon could scarcely match it;
He needed a fishing-pole to scratch it;---
But six and a half was the size of his hat,
And it rattled around on his head at that!
"Good work," somebody chanced to say,
And his chest swelled big as a load of hay.
About himself, like a rooster, he crowed;
Of his wonderful work he bragged and blowed
He marched around with a peacock strut;
Gigantic to him was the figure he cut;--
But he wore a very small-sized suit,
And loosely it hung on him, to boot!
HE was the chap who made things hum!
HE was the drumstick and the drum!
HE was the shirt bosom and the starch!
HE was the keystone in the arch!
HE was the axis of the earth!
Nothing existed before his birth!
But when he was off from work a
Nobody knew that he was away!
This is a fact that is sad to tell:
It's the empty head that is bound to swell;
It's the light-weight fellow who soars to the skies
And bursts like a bubble before your eyes.
A big man is humbled by honest praise,
And tries to think of all the ways
To improve his work and do it well;--
But a little man starts of himself to yell!
_Joseph Morris:_
CARES
To those who are wearied, fretted, and worried there is no physician
like nature. When our nerves are frazzled and our sleep is unrefreshing,
we can find no better antidote to the clamorous grind and frenzy of the
city than the stillness and solitude of hills, streams, and tranquil
stars. That man lays up for himself resources of strength who now and
then exchanges the ledger for green leaves, the factory for wild
flowers, business for brook-croon and bird-song.
The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields above the sea,
Among the winds at play;
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what may happen,
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay;
Among the husking of the corn
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born
Out in the fields with God.
_Elisabeth Barrett Browning._
FAITH
Any one who has ridden across the continent on a train must marvel at
the faith and imagination of the engineers who constructed the road--the
topographical advantages seized, the grades made easy of ascent, the
curves and straight stretches planned, the tunnels so carefully
calculated that workmen beginning on opposite sides of a mountain met in
the middle--and all this visualized and thought out before the actual
work was begun. Faith has such foresight, such courage, whether it toils
actively or can merely bide its time.
The tree-top, high above the barren field,
Rising beyond the night's gray folds of mist,
Rests stirless where the upper air is sealed
To perfect silence, by the faint moon kissed.
But the low branches, drooping to the ground,
Sway to and fro, as sways funereal plume,
While from their restless depths low whispers sound:
"We fear, we fear the darkness and the gloom;
Dim forms beneath us pass and reappear,
And mournful tongues are menacing us here."
Then from the topmost bough falls calm reply:
"Hush, hush, I see the coming of the morn;
Swiftly the silent night is passing by,
And in her bosom rosy Dawn is borne.
'Tis but your own dim shadows that ye see,
'Tis but your own low moans that trouble ye."
So Life stands, with a twilight world around;
Faith turned serenely to the steadfast sky,
Still answering the heart that sweeps the ground
Sobbing in fear, and tossing restlessly--
"Hush, hush! The Dawn breaks o'er the Eastern sea,
'Tis but thine own dim shadow troubling thee."
_Edward Rowland Sill._
From "Poems."
PLAYING THE GAME
We all like the good sport--the man who plays fair and courteously and
with every ounce of his energy, even when the game is going against him.
Life is a game with a glorious prize,
If we can only play it right.
It is give and take, build and break,
And often it ends in a fight;
But he surely wins who honestly tries
(Regardless of wealth or fame),
He can never despair who plays it fair--
How are you playing the game?
Do you wilt and whine, if you fail to win
In the manner you think your due?
Do you sneer at the man in case that he can
And does, do better than you?
Do you take your rebuffs with a knowing grin?
Do you laugh tho' you pull up lame?
Does your faith hold true when the whole world's blue?
How are you playing the game?
Get into the thick of it--wade in, boys!
Whatever your cherished goal;
Brace up your will till your pulses thrill,
And you dare--to your very soul!
Do something more than make a noise;
Let your purpose leap into flame
As you plunge with a cry, "I shall do or die,"
Then you will be playing the game.
_Anonymous_.
WHAT DARK DAYS DO
A real man does not want all his barriers leveled. He of course welcomes
easy tasks, but he welcomes hard ones also. The difficult or unpleasant
thing puts him on his mettle, throws him on his own resources. It gives
him something of
"The stern joy which warriors feel
In foemen worthy of their steel."
Moreover as a foil or contrast it enables him to value more truly the
good things he constantly enjoys, perhaps without perceiving them.
I sorter like a gloomy day,
Th' kind that jest _won't_ smile;
It makes a feller hump hisself
T' make life seem wuth while.
When sun's a-shinin' an' th' sky
Is washed out bright an' gay,
It ain't no job to whistle--but
It is--
When skies air gray!
So gloomy days air good fer us,
They make us look about
To find our blessin's--make us count
The friends who never doubt,
Most any one kin smile and joke
And hold blue-devils back
When it is bright, but we must work
T' grin--
When skies air black!
That's why I sorter _like_ dark days,
That put it up to me
To keep th' gloom from soakin' in
My whole anatomy!
An' if they _never_ come along
My soul would surely rust--
Th' dark days keeps my cheerfulness
From draggin'
In th' dust!
_Everard Jack Appleton._
From "The Quiet Courage."
GLADNESS
A coal miner does not need the sun's illumination. He carries his own
light.
The world has brought not anything
To make me glad to-day!
The swallow had a broken wing,
And after all my journeying
There was no water in the spring--
My friend has said me nay.
But yet somehow I needs must sing
As on a luckier day.
Dusk fails as gray as any tear,
There is no hope in sight!
But something in me seems so fair,
That like a star I needs must wear
A safety made of shining air
Between me and the night.
Such inner weavings do I wear
All fashioned of delight!
I need not for these robes of mine
The loveliness of earth,
But happenings remote and fine
Like threads of dreams will blow and shine
In gossamer and crystalline,
And I was glad from birth.
So even while my eyes repine,
My heart is clothed in mirth.
_Anna Hempstead Branch._
From "The Shoes That Danced, and Other Poems."
IT WON'T STAY BLOWED
It is easier to fail than succeed. It is easier to drift downstream than
up. But just as pent steam finds an escape somewhere, so will the man
who persists break at one point or another through confining
circumstance.
To the sniffing pickaninny once his good old mammy said,
"Yo' lil' black nose am drippin' from de cold dat's in yo' head,
An' yo' sleeve am slick and shiny like de hillside when it snows.
Why doan' you pump de bellers from de inside ob yo' nose?"
"Ain't I been," the child replied to her, "a-doin' ob jes' dat
Twel I's got a turble empty feel right whur I wears muh hat?
De traffic soht o' nacherly keeps gittin' in de road.
I blow muh nose a-plenty, but
it
won't
stay
blowed.