= If =

Twixt what thou art, and what thou wouldst be, let

No “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. Circumstance

Is but the toy of genius. When a soul

Burns with a god-like purpose to achieve,

All obstacles between it and its goal

Must vanish as the dew before the sun.

“If” is the motto of the dilettante

And idle dreamer;‘ tis the poor excuse

Of mediocrity. The truly great

Know not the word, or know it but to scorn,

Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died,

Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.