Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth

By Arthur Hugh Clough

Say not the struggle nought availeth,

    The labour 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 concealed,

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,

    Came, 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.


Poem: My Creed

The poem My Creed by Edgar A. Guest is one I just ran across.  I can say with all honesty that I would love to adopt this poem as a simplified measuring rod for myself.  I think this poem can be both convicting and inspiring to any person who is trying to live an upright life.  I can’t say that this is all I need for a creed or philosophy, but it is certainly a good start.  There is a lot here.

My Creed

                        -Edgar A. Guest

To live as gently as I can;

To be, no matter where, a man;

To take what comes of good or ill

And cling to faith and honor still;

To do my best, and let that stand

The record of my brain and hand;

And then, should failure come to me,

Still work and hope for victory.

To have no secret place wherein

I stoop unseen to shame and sin;

To be the same when I’m alone

As when my every deed is known;

To live undaunted, unafraid

Of any step that I have made;

To be without pretense or sham;

Exactly what men think I am.

To leave some simple mark behind

To keep my having lived in mind;

If enmity to aught I show,

To be an honest, generous foe,

To play my little part, nor whine

That greater honors are not mine.

This, I believe is all I need

For my philosophy and creed.

~Wyatt Fairlead

Hard Knocks

Well, I thought I would post this poem by Edgar A. Guest, partly because it is really good, partly because I haven’t posted one in a while, but truth be told, mostly because I wanted to put something on, but I am not feeling very original at the moment.  So without further ado, here ‘tis.


Hard Knocks

            -Edgar A. Guest

I’m not the man to say that failure’s sweet,

Nor tell a chap to laugh when things go wrong;

I know it hurts to have to take defeat

An’ no one likes to loose before a throng;

It isn’t very pleasant not to win

When you have done the very best you could;

But if you’re down, get up and buckle in-

A lickin’ often does a fellow good.

I’ve seen some chaps who never knew their power

Until somebody knocked ‘em to the floor;

I’ve known men who discovered in an hour

A courage they had never shown before.

I’ve seen ‘em rise from failure to the top

By doin’ things they hadn’t understood

Before the day disaster made ‘em drop-

A lickin’ often does a fellow good.

Success is not the teacher, wise an’ true,

That gruff old failure is, remember that;

She’s much too apt to make a fool of you,

Which isn’t true of blows that knock you flat.

Hard knocks are painful things an’ hard to bear,

An’ most of us would dodge ‘em if we could;

There’s something mighty broadening in care-

A lickin’ often does a fellow good.

-Wyatt Fairlead

It Couldn’t Be Done

I have been feeling a little overwhelmed with school recently, which is sad because my load is pathetically light compared to some of my friends.  I have been trying to tell myself that for a while, but it would appear that discouragement is not necessarily overcome by rationality.  At any rate, I remembered this poem earlier today, and I thought I would share it with you.


It Couldn’t Be Done

By Edgar A. guest.

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 a 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 at it;

Just start to sing as you tackle the thing

That “cannot be done” and you’ll do it.

 Wyatt Fairlead

How Did You Die?

Today has actually been a very nice day for me.  My studying went well and I can’t complain about anything else, but you know as well as I that nice days are not every day.  (And for me, nice days are greatly outnumbered by days that have been frustrating and tiring in some way or another.)  I get discouraged and my problems in life are so insignificant that it’s pathetic!  This is a poem that I have always found encouraging.  It is stuff that we have all probably heard before, but it’s still nice to hear again.  Hope you enjoy it as well.

How Did You Die

Edmund Vance Cooke

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful?

Or hide your face from the light of day

With a craven soul and fearful?

Oh, a troubles a ton, or trouble’s an ounce,

Or trouble is what you make it,

And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that counts,

But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to Earth?  Well, well, what’s that!

Come up with a smiling face.

It’s nothing against you to fall down flat,

But to lie there – that’s disgrace.

The harder you’re thrown, why the higher you bounce’

Be proud of your blackened eye!

It isn’t the fact that you’re licked that counts,

It’s how did you fight – and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?

If you battled the best you could,

If you played your part in the world of men,

Why, the Critic will call it good.

Death comes with a crawl, or it comes with a pounce,

And whether he’s slow or spry,

It isn’t the fact that you’re dead that counts,

But only how did you die?

Wyatt Fairlead