Resolution And Independence By William Wordsworth


There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.


All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning’s birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;–on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.


I was a Traveller then upon the moor,
I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.


But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low;
To me that morning did it happen so;
And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
Dim sadness–and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.


I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me–
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.


My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life’s business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?


I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
By our own spirits are we deified:
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.


Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place,
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
I saw a Man before me unawares:
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.


As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,
By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;


Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep–in his extreme old age:
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life’s pilgrimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.


Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood,
That heareth not the loud winds when they call
And moveth all together, if it move at all.


At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now a stranger’s privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
“This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.”


A gentle answer did the old Man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
“What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you.”
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes,


His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest–
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.


He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather leeches, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
Housing, with God’s good help, by choice or chance,
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.


The old Man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole body of the Man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.


My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
–Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
“How is it that you live, and what is it you do?”


He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the pools where they abide.
“Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.”


While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The old Man’s shape, and speech–all troubled me:
In my mind’s eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.


And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
“God,” said I, “be my help and stay secure;
I’ll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!”

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Cloony The Clown by Shel Silverstein

I’ll tell you the story of Cloony the Clown
Who worked in a circus that came through town.
His shoes were too big and his hat was too small,
But he just wasn’t, just wasn’t funny at all.
He had a trombone to play loud silly tunes,
He had a green dog and a thousand balloons.
He was floppy and sloppy and skinny and tall,
But he just wasn’t, just wasn’t funny at all.
And every time he did a trick,
Everyone felt a little sick.
And every time he told a joke,
Folks sighed as if their hearts were broke.
And every time he lost a shoe,
Everyone looked awfully blue.
And every time he stood on his head,
Everyone screamed, “Go back to bed!”
And every time he made a leap,
Everybody fell asleep.
And every time he ate his tie,
Everyone began to cry.
And Cloony could not make any money
Simply because he was not funny.
One day he said, “I’ll tell this town
How it feels to be an unfunny clown.”
And he told them all why he looked so sad,
And he told them all why he felt so bad.
He told of Pain and Rain and Cold,
He told of Darkness in his soul,
And after he finished his tale of woe,
Did everyone cry? Oh no, no, no,
They laughed until they shook the trees
With “Hah-Hah-Hahs” and “Hee-Hee-Hees.”
They laughed with howls and yowls and shrieks,
They laughed all day, they laughed all week,
They laughed until they had a fit,
They laughed until their jackets split.
The laughter spread for miles around
To every city, every town,
Over mountains, ‘cross the sea,
From Saint Tropez to Mun San Nee.
And soon the whole world rang with laughter,
Lasting till forever after,
While Cloony stood in the circus tent,
With his head drooped low and his shoulders bent.
And while the world laughed outside.
Cloony the Clown sat down and cried.

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September 1913 by William Butler Yeats

September 1913

What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman’s rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair
Has maddened every mother’s son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they’re dead and gone,
They’re with O’Leary in the grave.

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The Farewell by Lucy Maud Montgomery

The Farewell by Lucy Maud Montgomery

He rides away with sword and spur,
Garbed in his warlike blazonry,
With gallant glance and smile for her
Upon the dim-lit balcony.
Her kiss upon his lips is warm,
Upon his breast he wears her rose,
From her fond arms to stress and storm
Of many a bannered field he goes.

He dreams of danger, glory, strife,
His voice is blithe, his hand is strong,
He rides perchance to death from life
And leaves his lady with a song;
But her blue-brimmed eyes are dim
With her deep anguish standing there,
Sending across the world with him
The dear, white guerdon of her prayer.

For her the lonely vigil waits
When ashen dawnlights come and go,
Each bringing through the future’s gates
Its presages of fear and woe;
For her the watch with soul and heart
Grown sick with dread, as women may,
Yet keeping still her pain apart
From the wan duties of the day.

‘Tis hers to walk when sunsets yield
Their painted splendors to the skies,
And dream on some far battlefield
Perchance alone, unwatched, he dies;
‘Tis hers to kneel in patient prayer
When midnight stars keep sentinel,
Lest the chill death-dews damp the hair
Upon the brow she loves so well.

So stands she, white and sad and sweet,
Upon the latticed balcony,
From golden hair to slender feet
No lady is so fair as she;
He loves her true, he holds her dear,
But he must ride on dangerous quest,
With gallant glance and smile of cheer,
And her red rose upon his breast.

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The Little Boy Lost By William Blake

The Little Boy Lost

Father, father, where are you going
       O do not walk so fast.
Speak father, speak to your little boy
       Or else I shall be lost,


The night was dark no father was there
       The child was wet with dew.
The mire was deep, & the child did weep
       And away the vapour flew.
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The Piper By Joseph Campbell

The Piper

GEORGE BORROW in his Lavengro
Tells us of a Welshman, who
By some excess of mother-wit
Framed a harp and played on it,
Built a ship and sailed to sea,         5
And steered it home to melody
Of his own making. I, indeed,
Might write for Everyman to read
A thaumalogue of wonderment
More wonderful, but rest content         10
With celebrating one I knew
Who built his pipes, and played them, too:
No more.
Ah, played! Therein is all:
The hounded thing, the hunter’s call;
The shudder, when the quarry’s breath         15
Is drowned in blood and stilled in death;
The marriage dance, the pulsing vein,
The kiss that must be given again;
The hope that Ireland, like a rose,
Sees shining thro’ her tale of woes;         20
The battle lost, the long lament
For blood and spirit vainly spent;
And so on, thro’ the varying scale
Of passion that the western Gael
Knows, and by miracle of art         25
Draws to the chanter from the heart
Like water from a hidden spring,
To leap or murmur, weep or sing.
I see him now, a little man
In proper black, whey-bearded, wan,         30
With eyes that scan the eastern hills
Thro’ thick, gold-rimmèd spectacles.
His hand is on the chanter. Lo,
The hidden spring begins to flow
In waves of magic. (He is dead         35
These seven years, but bend your head
And listen.) Rising from the clay
The Master plays The Ring of Day.
It mounts and falls and floats away
Over the sky-line … then is gone         40
Into the silence of the dawn!
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The Hippopotamus By T.S. Eliot

The Hippopotamus

Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
S. Ignatii Ad Trallianos.
  And when this epistle is read among you, cause that it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.

THE BROAD-BACKED hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and blood is weak and frail,         5
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo’s feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,         10
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The ’potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach         15
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo’s voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.         20
The hippopotamus’s day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the ’potamus take wing         25
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,         30
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr’d virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below         35
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
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Bartleyby.Com Free Literature & Poetry

Ah Bartleby, Ah Humanity!

And so,—after the humble character of its namesake scrivener, or copyist—publishes the classics of literature, nonfiction, and reference free of charge.

   1 began as a personal research experiment in 1993 and within one year published the first classic book on the Web (Whitman’s Leaves of Grass). It was inconceivable then that a billion page views was possible, let alone, hundreds of millions of users.    2
  I am proud to have shepherded our mission over the last two decades to serve both the academic community and the curious reader, especially continuing the development of our original offerings: quotations and poetry anthologies.    2
  I welcome you as a patron, encourage your thorough use of our services, and look forward to your comments to benefit the quality and selection of our texts:


Steven H. van Leeuwen
Chairman & CEO, Inc. – Great Books Online Free

Author: Steven H .van Leeuwen

Full Text & Source:

The Internet, Online, 25/10/2014

Sample Text:

English Usage: Language, Style & Composition
Strunk, William, Jr. 1918. The Elements of Style.
Roget’s International Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases. 1922.
Fowler, H. W. 1908. The King’s English, 2nd ed.
Mencken, H.L. 1921. The American Language, 2nd ed.
Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur. 1916. On the Art of Writing.
Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur. 1920. On the Art of Reading.
Sapir, Edward. 1921. Language: An Introduction to the Study of Speech.
  Emily Dickinson
  Lives of the Saints
  Poetry Anthologies
  Strunk’s Style
  Walt Whitman
  Bartlett’s Quotations
  Robert Frost
  Proverbs and Maxims
  William Wordsworth
  T.S. Eliot
  Sigmund Freud
  Poems of Places
  Nathaniel Hawthorne
  U.S. Inaugurals
  Modern Poetry
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The Online Medieval and Classical Library

Title: The Online Medieval and Classical Library

Author: Roy Tennant & Douglas B. Killings

Full Text & Source:
The Internet, Online, 25/10/2014

Sample Text:

Anglo-Saxon (Old English)
•The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, Anonymous (Translation: Rev. James Ingram)◦An Index to this Work is Available

•Codex Junius 11, Anonymous (Translation: George Kennedy)
English, Middle
NOTE: All texts are in original language.
•The Book of the Duchess, by Geoffrey Chaucer (Editor: W.W. Skeat)
•Confessio Amantis, (aka “Tales of the Seven Deadly Sins”), by John Gower (Editor: G.C. MacAuley)
•The House of Fame, by Geoffrey Chaucer (Editor: W.W. Skeat)
•Legend of Good Women, by Geoffrey Chaucer (Editor: W.W. Skeat)
•The Parliament of Fowles, by Geoffrey Chaucer (Editor: W.W. Skeat)
•The Testament of Cresseid, by Robert Henryson (Editor: David Laing)
•Troilus and Criseyde, by Geoffrey Chaucer (Editor: W.W. Skeat)
French, Old •Cliges, by Chretien deTroyes (Translation: W.W. Comfort)
•Erec et Enide, by Chretien deTroyes (Translation: W.W. Comfort)
•High History of the Holy Graal, Anonymous (Translation: Sebastian Evans)
•Lancelot or, The Knight of the Cart, by Chretien deTroyes (Translation: W.W. Comfort)
•The Song of Roland, Anonymous (Translation: Charles Moncrief)
•Yvain, or The Knight With the Lion, by Chretien deTroyes (Translation: W.W. Comfort)
German, Middle High •Nibelungenlied, Anonymous (Translation: Daniel B. Shumway)
Greek, Classical and Byzantine •Argonautica, by Apollonius Rhodius (Translation: R.C. Seaton)
•Barlaam and Ioasaph, by St. John Damascene (Translation: G. Woodward & H. Mattingly)
•The Fall of Troy, by Quintus Smyrnaeus (Translation: A.S. Way)
•Hesiod, the Homeric Hymns and Homerica, by Hesiod, Homer, et al (Translation: H.G. Eveyln-White)
Icelandic (Old Norse) •Heimskringla (aka “The Chronicle of the Kings of Norway”), by Snorri Sturluson (Translation: Samuel Laing)
•Laxdaela Saga, Anonymous (Translation: Muriel Press)
•The Life and Death of Cormac the Skald (“Kormak’s Saga”), Anonymous (Translation: W.G. Collingwood & J. Stefansson)
•The Saga of Grettir the Strong (“Grettir’s Saga”), Anonymous (Translation: G.A. Hight)
•The Story of Burnt Njal (“Njal’s Saga”), Anonymous (Translation: George DaSent)
•The Story of the Ere-Dwellers (“Eyrbyggja Saga”), Anonymous (Translation: William Morris & Eirikr Magnusson)
•The Story of the Heath Slayings (“Heitharviga Saga”), Anonymous (Translation: William Morris & Eirikr Magnusson)
•The Story of the Volsungs (“Volsungasaga”), Anonymous (Translation: William Morris & Eirikr Magnusson)
Italian •Gerusalemme Liberata (“Jerusalem Delivered”), by Torquatto Tasso (Translation: Edward Fairfax)
•Orlando Furioso (“Orlando Enraged”), by Ludovico Ariosto (Translation: William Stewart Rose)
Latin, Classical and Medieval •Danish History (Books I-IX), by Saxo Grammaticus (Translation: Oliver Elton)
•Life of King Alfred, by Asser (Translation: J.A. Giles)
•Pharsalia (aka “The Civil War”), by Lucan (Translation: Sir Edward Ridley)
The Lay of the Cid, Anonymous (Translation: R. Sheldon Rose & L. Bacon)

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Free Classic Books Online

Title: Classic reader

Full Text & Source:

The Internet, Online, 24/10/2014



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A Soldier’s Christmas by Michael Marks

A Soldier’s Christmas

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight;
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight;
The sparkling lights in the tree, I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep
In perfect contentment or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eye when it tickled my ear;
Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near;
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold;
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

“What are you doing?” I asked without fear,
“Come in this moment, it’s freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!”

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts
To the window that danced with a warm fire’s light,
Then he sighed and he said “It’s really all right,
I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night.

“It’s my duty to stand at the front of the line
That separates you from the darkest of times;
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here like my fathers before me.

“My Gramps died at ‘Pearl’ on a day in December,”
Then he sighed, “That’s a Christmas ‘Gram’ always remembers;
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘Nam,
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

“I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile;”
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red white and blue … an American flag.

“I can live through the cold and the being alone
Away from my family, my house and my home;
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.

“I can carry the weight of killing another
Or lay down my life with my sisters and brothers
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To insure for all time that this flag will not fall.

“So go back inside,” he said, “harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.”

“But isn’t there something I can do, at the least
Give you money,” I asked, “or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you’ve done,
For being away from your wife and your son.”

Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
“Just tell us you love us, and never forget
To fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.

“For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.”

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A Smile

Smiling is infectious,
You catch it like the flu,
When someone smiled at me today,
I started smiling too.

I passed around the corner,
And someone saw my grin,
When he smiled I realized,
I’d passed it on to him.

I thought about that smile,
Then realized its worth,
A single smile, just like mine,
Could travel round the earth.

So, if you feel a smile begin,
Don’t leave it undetected.
Let’s start an epidemic quick,
And get the world infected.

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After The Rain

Whatever your cross, whatever your pain,
There will always be sunshine after the rain
Perhaps you may stumble, perhaps even fall,
But God’s always ready to answer your call

He knows every heartache, sees every tear,
A word from His lips can calm every fear
Your sorrows may linger throughout the night,
But suddenly vanish at dawn’s early light

The Savior is waiting somewhere above,
To give you His grace and send you His love
Whatever your cross, whatever your pain,
God always sends rainbows after the rain


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Don’t Quit

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must, but don’t you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and its turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When they might have won, had they stuck it out.
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than,
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor’s cup;
And he learned too late when the night came down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit,
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit!

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The Fire Inside

When all is lost and hope has fled
When fear is strong and strength is dead
When love and joy abandon you
When mental anguish grows in you

When the last of efforts fail to save
When your fate is ill, your mind enslaved
And when your head hangs low in misery
This is when you’ll find the key

A single ember from deep within
Burns hotter and hotter, as flames begin
The fire of truth will light the way
And help you fight, this lonely day

The battle is long, the struggle is rough
Never regret not giving enough
For when we offer our very best,
Our very soul is put to the test

Stand tall and true and you’ll prevail
Just hold on tight and never bail
You will survive if you don’t quit
Victory is there, if you reach for it

One day in the future, you will look to the past,
And know you had what it takes to last
So never give up and good things will come,
Not just honor and pride, but a job well done.

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Don’t Give Up By Phoebe Gary

Don’t Give Up

If you’ve tried and have not won,
Never stop for trying;
All that’s good and great is done
Just by patient trying.

Though young birds, in flying, fall,
Still their wings grow stronger,
And the next time they can keep
Up a little longer.

Though the sturdy oak has known
Many a wind that bowed her,
She has risen again and grown
Loftier and prouder.

If by easy work you beat,
Who the more will prize you?
Gaining victory from defeat,
That’s the test that tries you.


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Invictus By William Earnest Henley


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever God may be,
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not cried nor winced aloud,
Under the bludgeoning 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 straight the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the captain of my fate,
I am the master of my soul.

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A New Day Coming By Mychal Wynn

When the sun announces the dawning day
Just flex your muscles and start on your way.
Go over, or under, around, or through
Any obstacles or hurdles that challenge you.
There’s a new day coming.

Cast aside the failures of yesterday.
Forget the peaks and valleys that have paved your way.
Wipe the sweat from your brow and the dust from your shoe.
Take a breath and relax so that you may begin anew.
There’s a new day coming.

Forget the burdens and obstacles that have held you back.
Focus on your dreams and prepare a plan of attack.
There are battles awaiting to challenge your success.
Daring you to stand tall and to give it your best.
There’s a new day coming.

No matter how great the journey, or how heavy the load
How steep the mountain, or how rough the road.
When your arms grow weary and legs give way
Stop and rest for a moment, it will be okay.
There’s a new day coming.

As shadows spring forth from the setting sun.
Take a moment and savor the battles you’ve won.
Sleep peacefully tonight and enjoy your rest.
Awaken tomorrow and continue your quest.
There’s always, a new day coming.

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Winning Streak By Vernon Waring

Winning Streak

I dreamed I won three Oscars,
Four Emmys, and a Tony too.
My fireplace mantel was sagging
From the honors I accrued.

I picked up two Golden Globes,
Five Grammys plus a Pulitzer Prize.
The awards poured in that night.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.

They gave me the Nobel Peace Prize
And my very own Stanley Cup.
Then I earned a People’s Choice Award
Seconds before I woke up!

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Exercise By Vivien Wade

When I think about exercise,
I’m inspired to join a gym class,
Then after taking a short rest,
That feeling from me seems to pass.

When looking into the mirror,
To exercise I should make a start,
But thinking about it at my age,
It could be bad for my heart.

My teenagers need to exercise,
Run at least a mile each day,
Then at the end of two weeks,
They’d be fourteen miles away!

An aerobics class may be fun,
Moving to music, properly trained,
But I heard reports of those classes,
How often an ankle is sprained.

Having seen others at the gym,
How they puff, grunt and perspire,
Agony written over their faces,
Leaves me free from any desire.

I’m happy for others to exercise,
So long as it doesn’t include me,
I’d rather relax with my feet up,
While watching sports on TV.

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