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.