It Can Be Done - Joseph Morris
Say not, "I live!"
Unless the morning's trumpet brings
A shock of glory to your soul,
Unless the ecstasy that sings
Through rushing worlds and insects' wings,
Sends you upspringing to your goal,
Glad of the need for toil and strife,
Eager to grapple hands with Life--
Say not, "I live!"
Say not, "I live!"
Unless the energy that rings
Throughout this universe of fire
A challenge to your spirit flings,
Here in the world of men and things,
Thrilling you with a huge desire
To mate your purpose with the stars,
To shout with Jupiter and Mars--
Say not, "I live!"
Say not, "I live!"
Such were a libel on the Plan
Blazing within the mind of God
Ere world or star or sun began.
Say rather, with your fellow man,
"I grub; I burrow in the sod."
Life is not life that does not flame
With consciousness of whence it came--
Say not, "I live!"
_Angela Morgan._
From "The Hour Has Struck."
A POOR UNFORTUNATE
Things are never so bad but they might have been worse. An immigrant
into the South paid a negro to bring him a wild turkey. The next day he
complained: "You shouldn't shoot at the turkey's body, Rastus. Shoot at
his head. The flesh of that turkey was simply full of shot." "Boss,"
said the negro, "dem shot was meant for me."
I
His hoss went dead an' his mule went lame;
He lost six cows in a poker game;
A harricane came on a summer's day,
An' carried the house whar' he lived away;
Then a airthquake come when that wuz gone,
An' swallered the lan' that the house stood on!
An' the tax collector, _he_ come roun'
An' charged him up fer the hole in the groun'!
An' the city marshal--he come in view
An' said he wanted his street tax, too!
II
Did he moan an' sigh? Did he set an' cry
An' cuss the harricane sweepin' by?
Did he grieve that his ol' friends failed to call
When the airthquake come an' swallered all?
Never a word o' blame he said,
With all them troubles on top his head!
Not _him_.... He clumb to the top o' the hill--
Whar' standin' room wuz left him still,
An', barin' his head, here's what he said:
"I reckon it's time to git up an' git;
But, Lord, I hain't had the measels yit!"
_Frank L. Stanton._
From "The Atlanta Constitution."
THE TRAINERS
To Franklin, seeking recognition and aid for his country at the French
court, came news of an American disaster. "Howe has taken Philadelphia,"
his opponents taunted him. "Oh, no," he answered, "Philadelphia has
taken Howe." He shrewdly foresaw that the very magnitude of what the
British had done would lull them into overconfidence and inaction, and
would stir the Americans to more determined effort. Above all, he
himself was undisturbed; for to the strong-hearted, trials and reverses
are instruments of final success.
My name is Trouble--I'm a busy bloke--
I am the test of Courage--and of Class--
I bind the coward to a bitter yoke,
I drive the craven from the crowning pass;
Weaklings I crush before they come to fame;
But as the red star guides across the night,
I train the stalwart for a better game;
I drive the brave into a harder fight.
My name is Hard Luck--the wrecker of rare dreams--
I follow all who seek the open fray;
I am the shadow where the far light gleams
For those who seek to know the open way;
Quitters I break before they reach the crest,
But where the red field echoes with the drums,
I build the fighter for the final test
And mold the brave for any drive that comes.
My name is Sorrow--I shall come to all
To block the surfeit of an endless joy;
Along the Sable Road I pay my call
Before the sweetness of success can cloy;
And weaker souls shall weep amid the throng
And fall before me, broken and dismayed;
But braver hearts shall know that I belong
And take me in, serene and unafraid.
My name's Defeat--but through the bitter fight,
To those who know, I'm something more than friend;
For I can build beyond the wrath of might
And drive away all yellow from the blend;
For those who quit, I am the final blow,
But for the brave who seek their chance to learn,
I show the way, at last, beyond the foe,
To where the scarlet flames of triumph burn.
_Grantland Rice._
From "The Sportlight."
LIFE
Most of us have failed or gone astray in one fashion or another, at one
time or another. But we need not become despondent at such times. We
should resolve to reap the full benefit of the discovery of our
weakness, our folly.
All in the dark we grope along,
And if we go amiss
We learn at least which path is wrong,
And there is gain in this.
We do not always win the race
By only running right,
We have to tread the mountain's base
Before we reach its height.
* * * * *
But he who loves himself the last
And knows the use of pain,
Though strewn with errors all his past,
He surely shall attain.
Some souls there are that needs must taste
Of wrong, ere choosing right;
We should not call those years a waste
Which led us to the light.
_Etta Wheeler Wilcox._
From "Poems of Power."
A TOAST TO MERRIMENT
A lady said to Whistler that there were but two painters--himself and
Velazquez. He replied: "Madam, why drag in Velazquez?" So it is with
Joyousness and Gloom. Both exist,--but why drag in Gloom?
Make merry! Though the day be gray
Forget the clouds and let's be gay!
How short the days we linger here:
A birth, a breath, and then--the bier!
Make merry, you and I, for when
We part we may not meet again!
What tonic is there in a frown?
You may go up and I go down,
Or I go up and you--who knows
The way that either of us goes?
Make merry! Here's a laugh, for when
We part we may not meet again!
Make merry! What of frets and fears?
There is no happiness in tears.
You tremble at the cloud and lo!
'Tis gone--and so 'tis with our woe,
Full half of it but fancied ills.
Make merry! 'Tis the gloom that kills.
Make merry! There is sunshine yet,
The gloom that promised, let's forget,
The quip and jest are on the wing,
Why sorrow when we ought to sing?
Refill the cup of joy, for then
We part and may not meet again.
A smile, a jest, a joke--alas!
We come, we wonder, and we pass.
The shadow falls; so long we rest
In graves, where is no quip or jest.
Good day! Good cheer! Good-bye! For then
We part and may not meet again!
_James W. Foley._
From "Friendly Rhymes."
MISTRESS FATE
"Faint heart never won fair lady," Mistress Fate herself should be
courted, not with feminine finesse, but with masculine courage and
aggression.
Flout her power, young man!
She is merely shrewish, scolding,--
She is plastic to your molding,
She is woman in her yielding to the fires desires fan.
Flout her power, young man!
Fight her fair, strong man!
Such a serpent love is this,--
Bitter wormwood in her kiss!
When she strikes, be nerved and ready;
Keep your gaze both bright and steady,
Chance no rapier-play, but hotly press the quarrel she began!
Fight her fair, strong man!
Gaze her down, old man!
Now no laughter may defy her,
Not a shaft of scorn come nigh her,
But she waits within the shadows, in dark shadows very near.
And her silence is your fear.
Meet her world-old eyes of warning! Gaze them down with courage! _Can
You gaze them down, old man?_
_William Rose Benet._
From "Merchants from Cathay."
SLEEP AND THE MONARCH
(FROM "2 HENRY IV.")
The great elemental blessings cannot be "cornered." Indeed they cannot
be bought at all, but are the natural property of the man whose ways of
life are such as to retain them. In this passage a disappointed and
harassed king comments on the slumber which he cannot woo to his couch,
yet which his humblest subject enjoys.
How many thousand of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep! O sleep! O gentle sleep!
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lulled with sound of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch
A watch-case or a common 'larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafning clamor in the slippery clouds,
That with the hurly death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
_William Shakespeare._
NEVER TROUBLE TROUBLE
To borrow trouble is to contract a debt that any man is better without.
If your troubles are not borrowed, they are not likely to be many or
great.
I used to hear a saying
That had a deal of pith;
It gave a cheerful spirit
To face existence with,
Especially when matters
Seemed doomed to go askew,
'Twas _Never trouble trouble
Till trouble troubles you._
Not woes at hand, those coming
Are hardest to resist;
We hear them stalk like giants,
We see them through a mist.
But big things in the brewing
Are small things in the brew;
So never trouble trouble
Till trouble troubles you.
Just look at things through glasses
That show the evidence;
One lens of them is courage,
The other common sense.
They'll make it clear, misgivings
Are just a bugaboo;
No more you'll trouble trouble
Till trouble troubles you.
_St. Clair Adams._
CLEAR THE WAY
Humanity is always meeting obstacles. All honor to the men who do not
fear obstacles, but push them aside and press on. Stephenson was
explaining his idea that a locomotive steam engine could run along a
track and draw cars after it. "But suppose a cow gets on the track,"
some one objected. "So much the worse," said Stephenson, "for the cow."
Men of thought! be up and stirring,
Night and day;
Sow the seed, withdraw the curtain,
Clear the way!
Men of action, aid and cheer them,
As ye may!
There's a fount about to stream,
There's a light about to gleam,
There's a warmth about to glow,
There's a flower about to blow;
There's midnight blackness changing
Into gray!
Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!
Once the welcome light has broken,
Who shall say
What the unimagined glories
Of the day?
What the evil that shall perish
In its ray?
Aid it, hopes of honest men;
Aid the dawning, tongue and pen;
Aid it, paper, aid it, type,
Aid it, for the hour is ripe;
And our earnest must not slacken
Into play.
Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!
Lo! a cloud's about to vanish
From the day;
And a brazen wrong to crumble
Into clay!
With the Right shall many more
Enter, smiling at the door;
With the giant Wrong shall fall
Many others great and small,
That for ages long have held us
For their prey.
Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!
_Charles Mackay._
ONE FIGHT MORE
We need not expect much of the man who, when defeated, gives way either
to despair or to a wild impulse for immediate revenge. But from the man
who stores up his strength quietly and bides his time for a new effort,
we may expect everything.
Now, think you, Life, I am defeated quite?
More than a single battle shall be mine
Before I yield the sword and give the sign
And turn, a crownless outcast, to the night.
Wounded, and yet unconquered in the fight,
I wait in silence till the day may shine
Once more upon my strength, and all the line
Of your defenses break before my might.
Mine be that warrior's blood who, stricken sore,
Lies in his quiet chamber till he hears
Afar the clash and clang of arms, and knows
The cause he lived for calls for him once more;
And straightway rises, whole and void of fears,
And armed, turns him singing to his foes.
_Theodosia Garrison._
From "The Earth Cry."
A PSALM OF LIFE
At times this existence of ours seems to be meaningless; whether we have
succeeded or whether we have failed appears to make little difference to
us, and therefore effort seems scarcely worth while. But Longfellow
tells us this view is all wrong. The past can take care of itself, and
we need not even worry very much about the future; but if we are true to
our own natures, we must be up and doing in the present. Time is short,
and mastery in any field of human activity is so long a process that it
forbids us to waste our moments. Yet we must learn also how to wait and
endure. In short, we must not become slaves to either indifference or
impatience, but must make it our business to play a man's part in life.
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.
_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._
A CREED
Men may seem sundered from each other; but the soul that each possesses,
and the destiny common to all, invest them with a basic brotherhood.
There is a destiny that makes us brothers:
None goes his way alone:
All that we send into the lives of others
Comes back into our own.
I care not what his temples or his creeds,
One thing holds firm and fast--
That into his fateful heap of days and deeds
The soul of a man is cast.
_Edwin Markham_
From "Lincoln, and Other Poems."
BATTLE CRY
We should win if we can. But in any case we should prove our manhood by
fighting.
More than half beaten, but fearless,
Facing the storm and the night;
Breathless and reeling but tearless,
Here in the lull of the fight,
I who bow not but before thee,
God of the fighting Clan,
Lifting my fists, I implore Thee,
Give me the heart of a Man!
What though I live with the winners
Or perish with those who fall?
Only the cowards are sinners,
Fighting the fight is all.
Strong is my foe--he advances!
Snapt is my blade, O Lord!
See the proud banners and lances!
Oh, spare me this stub of a sword!
Give me no pity, nor spare me;
Calm not the wrath of my Foe.
See where he beckons to dare me!
Bleeding, half beaten--I go.
Not for the glory of winning,
Not for the fear of the night;
Shunning the battle is sinning--
Oh, spare me the heart to fight!
Red is the mist about me;
Deep is the wound in my side;
"Coward" thou criest to flout me?
O terrible Foe, thou hast lied!
Here with my battle before me,
God of the fighting Clan,
Grant that the woman who bore me
Suffered to suckle a Man!
_John G. Neihardt._
From "The Quest" (collected lyrics).
THE HAPPY HEART
One of our objects in life should be to find happiness, contentment. The
means of happiness are surprisingly simple. We need not be rich or
high-placed or powerful in order to be content. In fact the lowly are
often the best satisfied. Izaak Walton lived the simple life and thanked
God that there were so many things in the world of which he had no need.
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
O sweet content!
Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O punishment!
Then he that patiently want's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
_Thomas Dekker._
IF YOU CAN'T GO OVER OR UNDER, GO ROUND
Often the straight road to the thing we desire is blocked. We should not
then weakly give over our purpose, but should set about attaining it by
some indirect method. A politician knows that one way of getting a man's
vote is to please the man's wife, and that one way of pleasing the wife
is to kiss her baby.
A baby mole got to feeling big,
And wanted to show how he could dig;
So he plowed along in the soft, warm dirt
Till he hit something hard, and it surely hurt!
A dozen stars flew out of his snout;
He sat on his haunches, began to pout;
Then rammed the thing again with his head--
His grandpap picked him up half dead.
"Young man," he said, "though your pate is bone.
You can't butt your way through solid stone.
This bit of advice is good, I've found:
If you can't go over or under, go round."
A traveler came to a stream one day,
And because it presumed to cross his way,
And wouldn't turn round to suit his whim
And change its course to go with him,
His anger rose far more than it should,
And he vowed he'd cross right where he stood.
A man said there was a bridge below,
But not a step would he budge or go.
The current was swift and the bank was steep,
But he jumped right in with a violent leap.
A fisherman dragged him out half-drowned:
"When you can't go over or under, go round."
If you come to a place that you can't get _through,_
Or _over_ or _under_, the thing to do
Is to find a way _round_ the impassable wall,
Not say you'll go YOUR way or not at all.
You can always get to the place you're going,
If you'll set your sails as the wind is blowing.
If the mountains are high, go round the valley;
If the streets are blocked, go up some alley;
If the parlor-car's filled, don't scorn a freight;
If the front door's closed, go in the side gate.
To reach your goal this advice is sound:
If you can't go over or under, go round!
_Joseph Morris._
THICK IS THE DARKNESS
How many of us forget when the sun goes down that it will rise again!
Thick is the darkness--
Sunward, O, sunward!
Rough is the highway--
Onward, still onward!
Dawn harbors surely
East of the shadows.
Facing us somewhere
Spread the sweet meadows.
Upward and forward!
Time will restore us:
Light is above us,
Rest is before us.
_William Ernest Henley._
THE BELLY AND THE MEMBERS
(ADAPTED FROM "CORIOLANUS")
No doubt the world is cursed with grafters and parasites--men who live
off the body economic and give nothing substantial in return. But an
appearance of uselessness is not always proof of such. We should not
condemn men in ignorance. As old as Aesop is the fable of the rebellion
of the other members of the body against the idle unproductiveness of
the belly. In this passage the fable is used as an answer to the
plebeians of Rome who have complained that the patricians are merely an
encumbrance.
There was a time when all the body's members
Rebelled against the belly; thus accused it:
That only like a gulf it did remain
I' the midst o' the body, idle and unactive,
Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing
Like labor with the rest, where the other instruments
Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel,
And, mutually participant, did minister
Unto the appetite and affection common
Of the whole body. Note me this, good friend;
Your most grave belly was deliberate,
Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered:
"True is it, my incorporate friends," quoth he,
"That I receive the general food at first,
Which you do live upon; and fit it is;
Because I am the store-house and the shop
Of the whole body: but, if you do remember,
I send it through the rivers of your blood,
Even to the court, the heart, to the seat o' the brain:
And, through the cranks and offices of man,
The strongest nerves and small inferior veins
From me receive that natural competency
Whereby they live. Though all at once cannot
See what I do deliver out to each,
Yet I can make my audit up, that all
From me do back receive the flour of all,
And leave me but the bran." What say you to 't?
_William Shakespeare._
THE CELESTIAL SURGEON
We may acquire the resolution to be happy by resting on a bed of roses.
If that fails us, we should try a bed of nettles.
If I have faltered more or less
In my great task of happiness;
If I have moved among my race
And shown no glorious morning face;
If beams from happy human eyes
Have moved me not; if morning skies,
Books, and my food, and summer rain
Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:--
Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take
And stab my spirit broad awake;
Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,
Choose thou, before that spirit die,
A piercing pain, a killing sin,
And to my dead heart run them in!
_Robert Louis Stevenson._
MAN, BIRD, AND GOD
Robert Bruce, despairing of his country's cause, was aroused to new hope
and purpose by the sight of a spider casting its lines until at last it
had one that held. In the following passage the poet, uncertain as to
his own future, yet trusts the providence which guides the birds in
their long and uncharted migrations.
I go to prove my soul!
I see my way as birds their trackless way.
I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,
I ask not: but unless God send his hail
Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow,
In some time, his good time, I shall arrive:
He guides me and the bird. In his good time!
_Robert Browning._
HIS ALLY
The thought of this poem is that a man's best helper may be that which
gives him no direct aid at all--a sense of humor.
He fought for his soul, and the stubborn fighting
Tried hard his strength.
"One needs seven souls for this long requiting,"
He said at length.
"Six times have I come where my first hope jeered me
And laughed me to scorn;
But now I fear as I never feared me
To fall forsworn.
"God! when they fight upright and at me
I give them back
Even such blows as theirs that combat me;
But now, alack!
"They fight with the wiles of fiends escaping
And underhand.
Six times, O God, and my wounds are gaping!
I--reel to stand.
"Six battles' span! By this gasping breath
No pantomime.
Tis all that I can. I am sick unto death.
And--a seventh time?
"This is beyond all battles' soreness!"
Then his wonder cried;
For Laughter, with shield and steely harness,
Stood up at his side!
_William Rose Benet,_
From "Merchants from Cathay."
SUBMISSION
There are times when the right thing to do is to submit. There are times
when the right thing is to strive, to fight. To put forth one's best
effort is itself a reward. But sometimes it brings a material reward
also. The frog that after falling into the churn found that it couldn't
jump out and wouldn't try, was drowned. The frog that kept leaping in
brave but seemingly hopeless endeavor at last churned the milk, mounted
the butter for a final effort, and escaped.
Submission? They have preached at that so long.
As though the head bowed down would right the wrong,
As though the folded hand, the coward heart
Were saintly signs of souls sublimely strong;
As though the man who acts the waiting part
And but submits, had little wings a-start.
But may I never reach that anguished plight
Where I at last grow weary of the fight.