Courage
by Michael H. Popkin
Courage first met with fear
When I was still a child;
Courage gazed with cool, clear eyes:
Fear was something wild.
Courage urged "Let' go ahead;"
Fear said "Let's turn back."
Courage spoke of what we had,
Fear spoke of what we lacked.
Courage took me by the hand
And warmed my frozen bone;
Yet fear the while tugged at my legs
And whispered "We're alone."
Many have been the obstacles
Since first I had to choose,
And sometimes when courage led me on
I've come up with a bruise.
And many have been the challenges
Since fear and courage met,
And yet those times I've followed Fear,
Too often - tagged along Regret.
Fiddlers'
Green
- author unknown
Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green,
Are the souls of all dead troops camped
Near a good old-time canteen,
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.
Marching past, straight through to Hell,
The Infantry are seen,
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marine.
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.
Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene,
No trooper every gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen.
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green. |
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If...
by Rudyard Kipling
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 allowances for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired of 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 always 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 you turn long after they are gone,
And 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 loose 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!
The Arena
by Theodore Roosevelt, 1899
It is not the critic who counts, not the man who
points out how the strong man stumbled or where
the doer of deeds could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the
arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and
blood; who strives blatantly; who errs and comes up
short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms,
the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy
cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of
high achievement; and who at the worst, if he fails at
least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall
never be with those cold and timid souls who know
neither defeat nor victory.
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