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! -Rudyard Kipling

COURAGE

Courage is but a word, and yet, of words,
The only sentinel of permanence;

The ruddy watch-fire of cold winter days,
We steal its comfort, lift our weary swords,
And on.
For faith-without it-has no sense;
And love to wind of doubt and tremor sways;
And life forever quaking marsh must tread.

Laws give it not, before it prayer will blush,
Hope has it not, nor pride of being true.
'Tis the mysterious soul which never yields,
But hales us on and on to breast the rush
Of all the fortunes we shall happen through.
And when Death calls across his shadowy fields-
Dying, it answers: "Here! I am not dead!”
-John Galsworthy

PRAYER

God, though this life is but a wraith,
Although we know not what we use,
Although we grope with little faith,
Give me the heart to fight-and lose.

Ever insurgent let me be,

Make me more daring than devout; From sleek contentment keep me free, And fill me with a bouyant doubt.

Open my eyes to visions girt

With beauty, and with wonder litBut let me always see the dirt,

And all that spawn and die in it.

Open my ears to music; let

Me thrill with Spring's first flutes and drums— But never let me dare forget

The bitter ballads of the slums.

From compromise and things half-done,

Keep me, with stern and stubborn pride;

And when, at last, the fight is won

God, keep me still unsatisfied.

-Louis Untermeyer

A CREED

(To Mr. David Lubin)

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

THE GREAT LOVER

I have been so great a lover: filled my days
So proudly with the splendor of Love's praise,
The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and still content,

And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife
Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,
My night shall be remembered for a star

That outshone all the suns of all men's days.

Shall I not crown them with immortal praise

Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see

The inenarrable godhead of delight?

Love is a flame; we have beaconed the world's night.

A city-and we have built it, these and I.

An emperor:-we have taught the world to die.

So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
And the high cause of Love's magnificence,

And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names
Golden forever, eagles, crying flames,

And set them as a banner, that men may know,
To dare the generations, burn, and blow

Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming . . .
These I have loved:

White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,

Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faëry dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;

And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such—
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's ferns.

Dear names,

And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;
Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,

Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
Firm sands; the dulling edge of foam

That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mold;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;

And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;-
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass,
Whatever passes not, in the great hour,

Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power

To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust
And sacramental covenant to the dust.

-Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
And give what's left of love again, and make

New friends, now strangers. . . .

But the best I've known,

Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
Of living men, and dies.

Nothing remains.

O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
This one last gift I give: that after men

Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,

Praise you, “All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."

Mataiea, 1914.

-Rupert Brooke

GIFTS

God does not give us, when our youth is done,
Any such dower as we thought should be:
We are not strong, nor crowned with moon or sun;

We are not gods nor conquerors: life's sea

Has not rolled back to let our feet pass through