If solid happiness we prize, within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam; the world has nothing to bestow, From our own selves our bliss must flow, And that dear hut-our home.
There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khat-mandu, There's a little marble cross below the town, There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew, And die yellow god forever gazes down.
The man who succeeds above his fellows is the one who early in life discerns his object and toward that object habitually directs his powers. Even genius itself is but fine observation strengthened by fixity of purpose.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.
Life has no smooth road for any of us; and in the bracing atmosphere of a high aim the very roughness stimulates the climber to steadier steps till the legend, "over steep ways to the stars," fulfills itself.