IF’Twixt what thou art, and what thou wouldst be, letNo “If” arise on which to lay the blame.Man makes a mountain of that puny word,But, like a blade of grass before the scythe,It falls and withers when a human will,Stirred by creative force, sweeps toward its aim.Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. CircumstanceIs but the toy of genius. When a soulBurns with a god-like purpose to achieve,All obstacles between it and its goalMust vanish as the dew before the sun.“If” is the motto of the dilettanteAnd idle dreamer; ’tis the poor excuseOf mediocrity. The truly greatKnow not the word, or know it but to scorn,Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died,Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.
’Twixt what thou art, and what thou wouldst be, letNo “If” arise on which to lay the blame.Man makes a mountain of that puny word,But, like a blade of grass before the scythe,It falls and withers when a human will,Stirred by creative force, sweeps toward its aim.
Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. CircumstanceIs but the toy of genius. When a soulBurns with a god-like purpose to achieve,All obstacles between it and its goalMust vanish as the dew before the sun.
“If” is the motto of the dilettanteAnd idle dreamer; ’tis the poor excuseOf mediocrity. The truly greatKnow not the word, or know it but to scorn,Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died,Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.