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!

— Kipling, If

I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again.

-- Pushkin, I loved You

That you are fair or wise is vain,
Or strong, or rich, or generous;
You must have also the untaught strain
That sheds beauty on the rose.
There is a melody born of melody,
Which melts the world into a sea.
Toil could never compass it,
Art its height could never hit,
It came never out of wit,
But a music music-born
Well may Jove and Juno scorn.
Thy beauty, if it lack the fire
Which drives me mad with sweet desire,
What boots it? what the soldier’s mail,
Unless he conquer and prevail?
What all the goods thy pride which lift,
If thou pine for another’s gift?
Alas! that one is born in blight,
Victim of perpetual slight;—
When thou lookest in his face,
Thy heart saith, Brother! go thy ways!
None shall ask thee what thou doest,
Or care a rush for what thou knowest,
Or listen when thou repliest,
Or remember where thou liest,
Or how thy supper is sodden,—
And another is born
To make the sun forgotten.
Surely he carries a talisman
Under his tongue;
Broad are his shoulders, and strong,
And his eye is scornful,
Threatening, and young.
I hold it of little matter,
Whether your jewel be of pure water,
A rose diamond or a white,—
But whether it dazzle me with light.
I care not how you are drest,
In the coarsest, or in the best,
Nor whether your name is base or brave,
Nor tor the fashion of your behavior,—
But whether you charm me,
Bid my bread feed, and my fire warm me,
And dress up nature in your favor.
One thing is forever good,
That one thing is success,—
Dear to the Eumenides,
And to all the heavenly brood.
Who bides at home, nor looks abroad,
Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Fate

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—
This knight so bold—
And o’er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
“Shadow,” said he,
“Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?”

“Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,”
The shade replied—
“If you seek for Eldorado!”

— Edgar Allen Poe, El Dorado

LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life’s sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O’er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!

— Charlotte Bronte, Life

 Above all others, everywhere I see
       His image cold or burning!
     My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free
       The thoughts within me yearning.
     My quivering lips pour forth the words
       That cluster in his name of glory—
     The star gigantic with its rays of swords
       Whose gleams irradiate all modern story.

     I see his finger pointing where the shell
       Should fall to slay most rabble,
     And save foul regicides; or strike the knell
       Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble.
     A Consul then, o'er young but proud,
       With midnight poring thinned, and sallow,
     But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud,
       And round pale face and lank locks form the halo.

     And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame
       Whole nations' contact urging
     To gain his soldiers gold and fame
       Oh, Sun on high emerging,
     Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells
       Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose
     To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells,
       Into his host of half-a-million heroes!

     What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart.
       No weight of arms enfolded
     Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart
       Which Nature—not her journeymen—self-moulded.
     Let sordid jailers vex their prize;
       But only bends that brow to lightning,
     As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs
       Cleave through the storm and haste where France looms bright'ning.

     Alone, but greater! Broke the sceptre, true!
       Yet lingers still some power—
     In tears of woe man's metal may renew
       The temper of high hour;
     For, bating breath, e'er list the kings
       The pinions clipped may grow! the Eagle
     May burst, in frantic thirst for home, the rings
       And rend the Bulldog, Fox, and Bear, and Beagle!

     And, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and here
       Eternal brightness coming!
     The eye so weary's freshened with a tear
       As rises distant drumming,
     And wailing cheer—they pass the pale
       His army mourns though still's the end hid;
     And from his war-stained cloak, he answers "Hail!"
       And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid!

-- Victor Hugo, My Napoleon