Football Poems

The Hit That's Remembered

The football fans, adorned in red and white, rose from their seats when their team scored.
They were agitated by the fierce atmosphere created by the other team's fans.
A look of distress overtook their faces; their quarterback had fallen to the ground.
Just like that, the crowd became silent, as if they were at a funeral.
Motionless - he lay prone - face down as players circled him afraid to move him after the late hit.
Rushing to his aid, the quarterback's father leaped from the stands, and ran to his son's side.
He kneeled by his son, his pride in life, but still he lay there, unable to get up.
Minutes have passed.
Life was breathed into the young man. His eyes opened, seeing the beautiful world around him.
A man speaking in a riddle welcomes him to his world.
The gurneys outnumber the patients, his toes curl, and his eyes open to find himself alone, dazed, and confused.
_________________________________________________________________________________

He's a Sports Fan

The football fans, adorned in their team's colors of red and white, rose from their seats when their team scored.
Annoyed with the opposing fans, the fans took this opportunity to rub it in the other team's faces that they were now winning the game.
Suddenly, a look of distress overtook their faces; their quarterback had fallen to the ground in pain.
Silence overtook the fans as if they were at a funeral.
Motionlesss - he lay prone - face down as life had been sucked out of him after the late hit.
Rushing to his aid, the medical staff sprinted onto the field hoping the injury wasn't as bad as it looked.
With tears streaming down her face, the quarterback's girlfriend soon arrived at his side.
Minutes passed - for many the longest minutes of their lives - and the medics loaded the boy onto a stretcher and into an ambulance to rush him to the emergency room.
After defribillation and emergency surgery, the quarterback woke up they next day - still dazed but with a smirk on his face - with his father by his side.
The first words out of the boy's mouth were, "Did our team win the game?"
"Of course they did, they won for you," replied the dad. "But why are you smiling."
"Because the man upstairs told gave me a second chance. Turns out he's a sports fan and he said my team will be needing me!"

Part I: Why Poetry Matters - Student Responses

Installment: Thoughts on Jay Parini’s Why Poetry Matters.  

Does it matter?

Does it matter to you?

Does it matter to everyone?

Should it?

Quoting Quotes - and altering quotes:
http://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/577/02/

John Waldon:

A quote from the very first page, its the sign before an exit thats guiding you towards a destination, direct no offer of a counter Adrienne Rich writes “If our language is inadequate, our vision remains formless, our thinking and feeling are still running in the old cycles, our process may be ‘revolutionary’ but not transformative.” She clearly relates word choice to your ability to create visualizations and change moods and minds.

“Language offers tools for picking at reality, for dislodging shards of meaning, thus allowing us to communicate with one another in practical ways” language literally helps us communicate with one another. Word choice can change who is able to understand you or what they get out of it

“How comes it that human beings, whose contacts with the world are brief and personal and limited, are nevertheless able to know as much as they do know?” This quote resonated in my soul because it actually makes no sense that we are able to express things we never need to. Nature calls it self no name yet we constantly try to define it. 

Matt Hard:

”The assumption that language reflects reality struck him as simplistic and distorting, even in his own (rather complex) formulation of this notion; he had begun to think the ways in which language transforms reality, embodies it, and even creates it” (26). I really do not like this statement and disagree with it in the sense that I do not believe what Parini chooses to highlight from Wittgenstein says. Reality is reality. What is real is real. You cannot transform reality, but rather you can influence people’s views, and how they perceive reality. I agree that language can, however, embody and create reality. Of course language is influential and can closely imitate reality, but never, ever, transform what is.

”there is an odd fact about language that has been apparent for a long time: there are only so many words; yet from these relatively few words one can create an endless variety of nuanced meaning. In fact, there seems to be no end to what can be produced from these limited materials” (30-31). This piece really stuck with me. It made me think about how many words we actually use. From person to person there  is going to be an obvious difference in vocabulary, whether it be in the size or sophistication. But in total, there are only so many words that we use, or even have access to. You would think that you will be limited in what you can say and how you can make people feel with these words based off of how many words you use. Yet there are an infinite feelings you can make someone feel. There is an infinite number of stories you can tell. While we may be limited by these words that have existed and been evolving for a long we still are capable of creating new structures.

BRANDON KRAMER:

Have you ever wondered how human beings know so much and how there is so much technology in this world? Parini offers this quote from Chomsky in his chapter about language. “‘How comes it that human beings, whose contacts with the world are brief and personal and limited, are nevertheless able to know as much as they do know?’” (Parini 29). The more you think about this quote, the more it makes sense, and the more it astounds you. Why does new technology keep appearing when humans have about the same life expectancy? Shouldn’t we gain the same amount of knowledge in our 80 years of life and a person did in the 1800’s that lived for 80 years? This is where language comes in. Though we were not alive 200 years ago, our generation learns from those that were alive and builds upon their knowledge. Language allows humans to share ideas and continue moving forward. It’s amazing that with a lot of dirt, a lot of water, and some minerals, humans can now make smartphones, robots, planes and everything else to do with technology.

John Stuart Mill also makes an interesting quotes about poems in general and their length regarding to language. Parini quotes Mill, writing “all real poems should be ‘short poems; it being impossible that a feeling so intense...should sustain itself at its highest elevation for so long.’” I completely agree with this quotation. The longer a poem is, the shorter the reader’s attention span will be. Eventually, the reader will lose focus and the poem will lose its meaning. This is why its hard to make a meaningful poem that is longer. There will be a few particular interesting ideas within a longer poem, but it is impossible to mantain the level intensity and emotion that a poem requires.

Josh:

"Painting is mute poetry, and poetry a speaking picture," says Simonides of Ceos. Though this saying can appear to be confusing, Simonides describes poetry as mirroring reality. Painting and poetry go hand and hand. Since we are unable to speak through pictures poetry gives these mute images words, both trying to represent a sense of reality.  This quote is significant because it truly exemplifies how "linguistics begins to bleed over into other areas".

Charnley:

Language is the main focus topic in the 2nd chapter. Parini discusses how language is used in poetry to create meaning and to communicate with the reader, ‘...language offers tools for picking at reality, for dislodging shards of meaning, allowing us to communicate with one another...’.(Parini 27)This quote expresses that poetry isn't just a recreation of an image or an idea, it takes apart the picture and analyses every piece and finds a deeper meaning in seemingly ordinary objects or events.

Parini then goes on to start relating paintings to poetry, ‘ Painting and poetry have something in common, in that they attempt to represent reality in certain intensified ways.’ ( Parini pg 33 ) The way in which to completely different arts using completely different methods can reach a common goal. The relationship between poetry and art breaks down after further analysis, ‘ “ A metaphor cannot run on all four legs, “ Samual Taylor Cloeridge once said.’ ( Parini pg 33 ) The way that Colerigde expresses that a metaphor can only take you so far, the image has to be generated by the reader itself, this unlike a picture, is completely personal to the reader.

Alex Rinker:

“Poetry allows us to articulate matters of concern in such a way that they become physical, tangible, and immediate.” (Parini 25)

Parini talks about the difference between poetry and other forms of writing.  He states that poetry differs from newspaper writing because it allows the author to describe something in such detail that he essentially creates the object from the writing.  The reader, through good poetry, physically sees the image displayed before him.  I chose this quote because it shows the difference between poetry and a description in, for example, a book or magazine.  Poetry goes much more in depth as it shows the scene rather than tell about it like other forms of writing do.


“The poet quickens our sense of language, and our sense of life as well.  This is why language matters in a poem, and why poetry matters.” (Parini 38)

The last three words of this quote drew me in.  They made me think about why we read this chapter for homework.  They made me think about whether or not KOB would have chosen this chapter because of these words, or if he even based the course title from this very quote.  Either way this quote stood out because it directly answers the main question of our english class this semester.  Parini believes that poetry matters because it increases our sense of life, our being.  Through poetry we learn appreciate the world we live in.


“[A]ll real poems should be ‘short poems; it being impossible that a feeling so intense . . . should sustain itself at its highest elevation for long.’” (Parini 35)

This quote spoke to me because it is a concept that I have found to be true of my writing and most of that which I read.  I lose interest quickly when I read “short” stories that end up droning on forever with no end in sight. To maintain a reader’s interest, one must either write an engaging book, in which the reader is immersed completely in the world in which the events take place, or the author should offer a portal into a story or poem through which the reader can leap in, spend his time, and exit again after his quick exciting journey into someone else’s life. The short story must be detailed enough so the reader can enjoy his stay within the words, but it must not be so long as to keep him a prisoner between the pages for, as shown in the reading, the longer the story is, the less likely it is that the story is the most interesting it could be.


Kevin M. Hoover

“Painting is mute poetry, and poetry a speaking picture”

- Simonides of Ceos

According to Parini, we cannot actually write in pictures, and thus the comparison is wrong, but he takes it far too literally. What is meant by the quote is that poetry describes the things that be through words, while painting attempts to imitate the world through visual replication.

"Makers of tables and beds simply imitate the idea of

things, whereas the artist has another avenue of approach,

that of 'turning a mirror round and round'"

-Plato

This quote says that while most people try to copy things that other people have already done, an poet, or any other artist, makes a new creation every time, because as the mirror turns, the picture constantly changes. Additionally, while craftsmen follow instructions to recreate what has been done before, the artist makes an exact depiction of everything within the mirror at that moment

"...all real poems should be 'short poems; it being impossible

a feeling so intense... should sustain itself at its highest

elevation for long'"

-John Stuart Mill

In my opinion, the quote is saying that only a short poem can sustain the great passion that most people look for when reading poetry, because in a longer poem, the feeling will begin to die down. Thus, passion can be expressed far better in short bursts than in long, rambling epics.

Benfu Zhu:
Jay Parini argues that the people have the ability to express themselves in words mark the true distinction between the humans and animals. He then concludes his thought into one sentence the ¨language is, then, a property of the species, and unique to it¨(31). The ability to talk to people makes us a unique species on earth, a true human being. But there are some distinctions in the use of language. The poetic language draws a true distinction between the daily take and even the prose because the poetics voice and the metaphor use in the poetry. Furthermore, a poet´s originality depends on a deep understanding of the nature. So, why a human being is unique compared to the animal, because he or she has the gift to dig out the true beauty of the nature and speak and even write about it. The poetry has the power of open mind to the nature and transforms lives. Poetry indeed matters.


Andrew Fazekash:

Prefacing this quote, Jay Parini says how M.H. Abrams said “The Lucretian theory that language began as a spontaneous expression of feeling”(Parini 34), and thus, the original meaning of language and words was, by nature abstract. This quotation gives more meaning to how poets continue to preserve the roots of language in their works:

“Poets consistently attempt to return words to their original sense; this is one of the most vivid functions of poetry: to refresh language by drawing words back into alignment with their original pictorial, concrete, and metaphorical associations.” (Parini 37)

This quote struck me as interesting because, in general, people assume that the original meaning of a word is what one might find in a dictionary. However, this Lucretian theory that Parini elaborates on in this quotation gives a different perspective to the origin of words. This shows that language truly evolved as an abstract art, and the precision obsessed world of today has mutilated language so that it more nearly is associated with definition rather than the context of the word. “Poets really love the ‘possibilities of context’”(Parini 40). This concentration on the mere “context” of each word is how poets attempt to bring words to their original, more “tangible” and abstraction form of expression; the true meaning of each word. This theory shows us why poetry is written. To preserve language in its purest form; abstract and “pictorial”(Parini 37), just how each word is inherently meant to be perceived.



Maddy Stoopack:

“Poetry both creates “new materials of knowledge“ and “engenders in the mind a desire to reproduce and arrange them according to a certain rhythm and order in which may be called beautiful and the good“ (Parini 16)

In Chapter One, Parini essentially what poetry is- a replication and interpretation of reality. I chose this quotation because it ties in all of Parini’s thoughts to one phrase, summarizing the meaning and process of creating poetry.

When discussing the process of places thoughts into words and words into sentences, Parini says, “...if something cannot be formulated in language, it remains beyond thought, or possibly beyond consciousness, unmediated and unrealized“ (Parini 26) All thoughts go unrealized unless the poet is capable of forming words from thoughts and combining words producing syntactically well-formed sentences.

“Poets consistently attempt to return words to their original sense; this is one of the most vivid functions of poetry: to refresh language by drawing words back into alignment with their original pictorial, concrete, and metaphorical associations“ (Parini 37).
Before I read this, I thought that poets simply wrote and had no intentions, but Parini made me realize (with this quote) that poets DO use the true meanings of words. The words chosen depict images that only that word can create. I like this passage because I learned something new and will have this thought in my head when reading poetry instead of just reading to read.   


Marissa Perrett:

Parini quoting Richard Rorty.
“Language offers tools for picking at reality, for dislodging shards of meaning, thus allowing us to communicate with one another in practical ways. It provides a means for coping with the world as we find it” and “One creates reality through languages” (Parini 27).  Languages are what makes humankind unique. It’s a the way of communication. Without languages, humans would not have been able to share discoveries, ideas, innovations, or establish relationships.

“The poems, and its language, draws the sense to a fine point, to a pitch of expression....Ideally, it returns us to our deepest concerns, our most intense and original feelings” (Parini 36).
“What will vary from poem to poem is the method used to intensify or heighten the language” (Parini 35). These quotes go together. Language is the foundation of poetry, without which poetry cannot be created. The arrangement of words are to express emotions, tell a story, or send a message. The intensity of the poem is determined by the way language is used.

John Donne

John Donne

 

John Donne was born between January 24 and June 19, 1572. He was primarily raised by his mother, Elizabeth, because his father died in 1576. He was born and raised in London in a wealthy Catholic family when England was strongly anti-Catholic. Donne attended Oxford for 3 years, and Cambridge for 3 years, yet he did not end up receiving a degree in anything. John Donne is most well known for his "erotic love poetry"; his most famous works include "Holy Sonnet XIV: Batter My Heart, Three-Personed God", "For Whom the Bell Tolls", "The Flea" and "The Broken Heart". Donne somehow manages to incorporate both the "raunchy" and the "religious" in his works, and the language is dense which makes his poetry great to read. He died March 31, 1631.

THE FLEA. by John Donne MARK but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is ; It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be. Thou know'st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;     Yet this enjoys before it woo,     And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;     And this, alas ! is more than we would do. O stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, yea, more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is. Though parents grudge, and you, we're met, And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.     Though use make you apt to kill me,     Let not to that self-murder added be,     And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee? Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now. 'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ; Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me, Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

http://blog.sfgate.com/drader/2011/03/03/the-10-greatest-poets-my-list/
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/john_donne/poems
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne

William Ernest Henley

William Ernest Henley

Born:23 August 1849 in Gloucester, England

School: The Crypt Grammar  School in Gloucester

Famous Work: Invictus
                           Margaritae Soroi
                           Pro Rege Nostro

Died: 11 July 1903

Favorite poem by William Ernest Henley: Invictus
                         Invictus

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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FozhZHuAcCs Invicutus read by Morgan Freeman


                            

 

William Ernest Henley

William Ernest Henley

Born

T.S. Eliot

Born:

September 26,1888 in Saint Louis, Missouri

Early Life:

           TS Eliot Was raised in Saint Louis Missouri. He struggled with a congenital double hernia, a condition where one’s intestines jut through the bowel wall and cause abdominal ruptures. Because of this, Eliot was put on sports restriction, only rather than just being sports, he essentially couldn't socialize. As Eliot was often isolated, he developed a love for literature.

Education:

            1898 to 1905, Eliot attended Smith Academy
            1906 to 1909: studied philosophy at Harvard
            Graduate work in philosophy: 
                        Sorbonne (1910 - 1911)
                        Harvard (1909 - 1910, 1911-1914)
                        Merton College, Oxford (1914 - 1915)

Famous Works:

            “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (published 1910)

            “Gerontion” (published 1920)

            “The Waste Land” (published 1922)

“The Hollow Men” (published 1925)

“Ash Wednesday” (published 1930)

Died:

January 4, 1965

Photo:

"Gerontion"

HERE I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,	5
Bitten by flies, fought.
My house is a decayed house,
And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.	10
The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;
Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.
I an old man,	15
A dull head among windy spaces.
Signs are taken for wonders. “We would see a sign”:
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger	20
In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;	25
By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fraulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttles
Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,	30
An old man in a draughty house
Under a windy knob.
After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,	35
Guides us by vanities. Think now
She gives when our attention is distracted
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What’s not believed in, or if still believed,	40
In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
Into weak hands, what’s thought can be dispensed with
Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues	45
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.
The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
We have not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last	50
I have not made this show purposelessly
And it is not by any concitation
Of the backward devils
I would meet you upon this honestly.
I that was near your heart was removed therefrom	55
To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
Since what is kept must be adulterated?
I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How should I use it for your closer contact?	60
These with a thousand small deliberations
Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,
Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
With pungent sauces, multiply variety
In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do,	65
Suspend its operations, will the weevil
Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled
Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear
In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits
Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,	70
White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
And an old man driven by the Trades
To a a sleepy corner.
Tenants of the house,
Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.	75

http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1948/eliot-bio.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T._S._Eliot

http://www.bartleby.com/199/13.html

                     

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Biography 
Ferlinghetti is an American Poet, Publisher, Playwright, Painter, and an Activist.

Born 
1919

Raised 
New York

Schools B.A. in Journalism at University of North Carolina
"Earned a doctoral degree in poetry at the Sorbonne in Paris with a dissertation entitled 'The City as Symbol in Modern Poetry: In Search of a Metropolitan Tradition'."


Famous works
Constantly Risking Absurdity
Wild Dreams Of A New Beginning
A Vast Confusion
Bird With Two Right Wings


Died 
...nope, still living

Favorite poem by Ferlinghetti:


Two Scavengers In A Truck,
Two Beautiful People In A Mercedes
By Lawrence Ferlinghetti


At the stoplight waiting for the light
                                                 Nine A.M. downtown San Francisco
               a bright garbage truck
                               with two garbage men in red plastic blazers
   standing on the back stoop
                                                one on each side hanging on
                    and looking down into
an elegant open Mercedes
with an elegant couple in it
The man
In a hip three-piece linen suit
With shoulder-length blond hair & sunglasses
The young blond woman so casually coifed
with a short skirt and colored stocking
On his way to his architect's office
And the two scavengers up since Four A.M.
Grungy from their route
On the way home
The older of the two with grey iron hair
And hunched back
Looking like some
Gargoyle Quasimodo
And the younger of the two
Also with sunglasses and long hair
About the same age as the Mercedes driver
And both scavengers gazing down
As from a great distance
At the cool couple
As if they were watching some odorless TV ad
In which everything is possible
And the very red light for an instant
Holding all four close together
As if anything at all were possible
Between them
Across that great gulf
In the high seas
Of this democracy








additional sources
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/lawrence-ferlinghetti

No man is an Island

For whom the bell tolls a poem (No man is an island) by John Donne No man is an island, Entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thine own Or of thine friend's were. Each man's death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know For whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee. These famous words by John Donne were not originally written as a poem  - the passage is taken from the 1624 Meditation 17, from  Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions and is prose.  The words of the original passage are as follows: John Donne Meditation 17 Devotions upon Emergent Occasions "No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...."

Arian Foster

Arian Foster

Born: August 24, 1986 (age 26)

Raised: Albuquerque, New Mexico later moved to San Diego

Schools: Went to Tennessee and majored in Philosophy

I miss you like the sun rise

by Arian Foster

I miss you like the sun rise

Winter nights became reality’s home,

Snow men stand here like soldiers of Rome,

My tears freeze before they kiss the wind,

I think of warmth and miss you then,

Since when when did rose petals crack While pondering love,

Dressed in pitch black with this sombering sun,

I sit an fish, out of the river Styx,

Catching cold souls with their quivered lips,

They whisper sweet like lemons drip,

And gaze my eyes like Medusa’s gift,

My bait is smiles.

Unhook me, look me not into dusk,

Ease my cuts, and release my lust,

Inhale my words, and breathe my wants,

Let the light marry my eyes,

And let the same inherit the skies.

I miss you like the sun rise.

Rudyard Kipling

Joseph Rudyard Kipling

Biography: Most known for the famous Jungle Book, Kipling was a British author and poet. Along with the Jungle Book he also published a number of short story collections and poetry books. He is most known for his ideas on British Imperialism which are expressed in his work The White Man’s Burden.

Born: 30th December 1865 in Bombay, British India
Raised: At the age of 6 he traveled with his sister to Britain for education
School:  United Service College at Westward Ho in Devon
Famous Work: White Man’s Burden (writes about Imperialism)
Died: 18th January 1936 in London England

Information from: http://www.thefamouspeople.com/profiles/rudyard-kipling-40.php

If - 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 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 impostors 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!