Read Ebook: It Can Be Done: Poems of Inspiration by Adams St Clair Compiler Morris Joseph Compiler

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1290 lines and 80145 words, and 26 pages

IT CAN BE DONE

BE THE BEST OF WHATEVER YOU ARE

We all dream of great deeds and high positions, away from the pettiness and humdrum of ordinary life. Yet success is not occupying a lofty place or doing conspicuous work; it is being the best that is in you. Rattling around in too big a job is much worse than filling a small one to overflowing. Dream, aspire by all means; but do not ruin the life you must lead by dreaming pipe-dreams of the one you would like to lead. Make the most of what you have and are. Perhaps your trivial, immediate task is your one sure way of proving your mettle. Do the thing near at hand, and great things will come to your hand to be done.

If you can't be a pine on the top of the hill Be a scrub in the valley--but be The best little scrub by the side of the rill; Be a bush if you can't be a tree.

If you can't be a bush be a bit of the grass, And some highway some happier make; If you can't be a muskie then just be a bass-- But the liveliest bass in the lake!

We can't all be captains, we've got to be crew, There's something for all of us here. There's big work to do and there's lesser to do, And the task we must do is the near.

If you can't be a highway then just be a trail, If you can't be the sun be a star; It isn't by size that you win or you fail-- Be the best of whatever you are!

THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

This poem has as its keynote friendship and sympathy for other people. It is a paradox of life that by hoarding love and happiness we lose them, and that only by giving them away can we keep them for ourselves. The more we share, the more we possess. We of course find in other people weaknesses and sins, but our best means of curing these are through a wise and sympathetic understanding.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height; And the road passes on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night. But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice, And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone.

From "Dreams in Homespun."

FOUR THINGS

What are the qualities of ideal manhood? Various people have given various answers to this question. Here the poet states what qualities he thinks indispensable.

Four things a man must learn to do If he would make his record true: To think without confusion clearly; To love his fellow-men sincerely; To act from honest motives purely; To trust in God and Heaven securely.

From "Collected Poems."

The central idea of this poem is that success comes from self-control and a true sense of the values of things. In extremes lies danger. A man must not lose heart because of doubts or opposition, yet he must do his best to see the grounds for both. He must not be deceived into thinking either triumph or disaster final; he must use each wisely--and push on. In all things he must hold to the golden mean. If he does, he will own the world, and even better, for his personal reward he will attain the full stature of manhood.

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 imposters 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!

From "Rudyard Kipling's Verse, 1885-1918."

INVICTUS

Triumph in spirit over adverse conditions is the keynote of this poem of courage undismayed. It rings with the power of the individual to guide his own destiny.

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 fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings 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.

IT COULDN'T BE DONE

Somebody said that it couldn't be done, But he with a chuckle replied That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried. So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin On his face. If he worried he hid it. He started to sing as he tackled the thing That couldn't be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that; At least no one ever has done it"; But he took off his coat and he took off his hat, And the first thing we knew he'd begun it. With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin, Without any doubting or quiddit, He started to sing as he tackled the thing That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done, There are thousands to prophesy failure; There are thousands to point out to you one by one, The dangers that wait to assail you. But just buckle in with a bit of a grin, Just take off your coat and go to it; Just start to sing as you tackle the thing That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

From "The Path to Home."

THE WELCOME MAN

There's a man in the world who is never turned down, wherever he chances to stray; he gets the glad hand in the populous town, or out where the farmers make hay; he's greeted with pleasure on deserts of sand, and deep in the aisles of the woods; wherever he goes there's the welcoming hand--he's The Man Who Delivers the Goods. The failures of life sit around and complain; the gods haven't treated them white; they've lost their umbrellas whenever there's rain, and they haven't their lanterns at night; men tire of the failures who fill with their sighs the air of their own neighborhoods; there's one who is greeted with love-lighted eyes--he's The Man Who Delivers the Goods. One fellow is lazy, and watches the clock, and waits for the whistle to blow; and one has a hammer, with which he will knock, and one tells a story of woe; and one, if requested to travel a mile, will measure the perches and roods; but one does his stunt with a whistle or smile--he's The Man Who Delivers the Goods. One man is afraid that he'll labor too hard--the world isn't yearning for such; and one man is always alert, on his guard, lest he put in a minute too much; and one has a grouch or a temper that's bad, and one is a creature of moods; so it's hey for the joyous and rollicking lad--for the One Who Delivers the Goods!

From "Walt Mason, His Book."

THE QUITTER

When you're lost in the wild and you're scared as a child, And death looks you bang in the eye; And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle To cock your revolver and die. But the code of a man says fight all you can, And self-dissolution is barred; In hunger and woe, oh it's easy to blow-- It's the hell served for breakfast that's hard.

You're sick of the game? Well now, that's a shame! You're young and you're brave and you're bright. You've had a raw deal, I know, but don't squeal. Buck up, do your damnedest and fight! It's the plugging away that will win you the day, So don't be a piker, old pard; Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit-- It's the keeping your chin up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten and die, It's easy to crawfish and crawl, But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight, Why, that's the best game of them all. And though you come out of each grueling bout, All broken and beaten and scarred-- Just have one more try. It's dead easy to die, It's the keeping on living that's hard.

From "Rhymes of a Rolling Stone."

FRIENDS OF MINE

We like to be hospitable. To what should we be more hospitable than a glad spirit or a kind impulse?

Good-morning, Brother Sunshine, Good-morning, Sister Song, I beg your humble pardon If you've waited very long. I thought I heard you rapping, To shut you out were sin, My heart is standing open, Won't you walk right in?

Good-morning, Brother Gladness, Good-morning, Sister Smile, They told me you were coming, So I waited on a while. I'm lonesome here without you, A weary while it's been, My heart is standing open, Won't you walk right in?

Good-morning, Brother Kindness, Good-morning, Sister Cheer, I heard you were out calling, So I waited for you here. Some way, I keep forgetting I have to toil or spin When you are my companions, Won't you walk right in?

From "The Voices of Song."

THE WOMAN WHO UNDERSTANDS

"Is this the little woman that made this great war?" was Lincoln's greeting to Harriet Beecher Stowe. Often a woman is responsible for events by whose crash and splendor she herself is obscured. Often too she shapes the career of husband or brother or son. A man succeeds and reaps the honors of public applause, when in truth a quiet little woman has made it all possible--has by her tact and encouragement held him to his best, has had faith in him when his own faith has languished, has cheered him with the unfailing assurance, "You can, you must, you will."

Broken by Fate, unrelenting, Scarred by the lashings of Chance; Bitter his heart--unrepenting-- Hardened by Circumstance; Shadowed by Failure ever, Cursing, he would have died, But the touch of her hand, her strong warm hand, And her love of his soul, took full command, Just at the turn of the tide! Standing beside him, filled with trust, "Win!" she whispered, "you must, you must!"

Helping and loving and guiding, Urging when that were best, Holding her fears in hiding Deep in her quiet breast; This is the woman who kept him True to his standards lost, When, tossed in the storm and stress of strife, He thought himself through with the game of life And ready to pay the cost. Watching and guarding, whispering still, "Win you can--and you will, you will!"

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet