You can do as much as you think you can, But you'll never accomplish more; If you're afraid of yourself, young man, There's little for you in store.

For failure comes from the inside first, It's there if we only knew it, And you can win, though you face the worst, If you feel that you're going to do it.

Success! It's found in the soul of you, And not in the realm of luck!

The world will furnish the work to do, But you must provide the pluck.

You can do whatever you think you can, It's all in the way you view it.

It's all in the start that you make, young man: You must feel that you're going to do it.

How do you tackle your work each day?

With confidence clear, or dread?

What to yourself do you stop and say When a new task lies ahead?

What is the thought that is in your mind?

Is fear ever running through it?

If so, just tackle the next you find By thinking you're going to do it.

--From "A Heap o' Livin'," by Edgar A. Guest

I tackle my terrible job each day With a fear that is well defined; And I grapple the task that comes my way With no confidence in my mind.

I try to evade the work ahead, As I fearfully pause to view it, And I start to toil with a sense of dread, And doubt that I'm going to do it.

I can't do as much as I think I can, And I never accomplish more.

I am scared to death of myself, old man, As I may have observed before.

I've read the proverbs of Charley Schwab, Carnegie, and Marvin Hughitt; But whenever I tackle a difficult job, O gosh! how I hate to do it!

I try to believe in my vaunted power With that confident kind of bluff, But somebody tells me The Conning Tower Is nothing but awful stuff.

And I take up my impotent pen that night, And idly and sadly chew it, As I try to write something merry and bright, And I know that I shall not do it.

And that's how I tackle my work each day-- With terror and fear and dread-- And all I can see is a long array Of empty columns ahead.

And those are the thoughts that are in my mind, And that's about all there's to it.

As long as it's work, of whatever kind, I'm certain I cannot do it.

Recuerdo

We were very tired, we were very merry-- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable-- But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on the hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry-- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head, And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, "G.o.d bless you!" for the apples and pears, And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

--EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY, _in Poetry_.

I was very sad, I was very solemn-- I had worked all day grinding out a column.

I came back from dinner at half-past seven, And I couldn't think of anything till quarter to eleven; And then I read "Recuerdo," by Miss Millay, And I said, "I'll bet a nickel I can write that way."

I was very sad, I was very solemn-- I had worked all day whittling out a column.

I said, "I'll bet a nickel I can chirp such a chant,"

And Mr. Geoffrey Parsons said, "I'll bet you can't."

I bit a chunk of chocolate and found it sweet, And I listened to the trucking on Frankfort Street.

I was very sad, I was very solemn-- I had worked all day fooling with a column.

I got as far as this and took my verses in To Mr. Geoffrey Parsons, who said, "Kid, you win."

And--not that I imagine that any one'll care-- I blew that jitney on a subway fare.

On Tradition

LINES PROVOKED BY HEARING A YOUNG MAN WHISTLING

No carmine radical in Art, I worship at the shrine of Form; Yet open are my mind and heart To each departure from the norm.

When Post-Impressionism emerged, I hesitated but a minute Before I saw, though it diverged, That there was something healthy in it.

And eke when Music, heavenly maid, Undid the chains that chafed her feet, I grew to like discordant shade-- Unharmony I thought was sweet.

When verse divorced herself from sound, I wept at first. Now I say: "Oh, well, I see some sense in Ezra Pound, And nearly some in Amy Lowell."

Yet, though I storm at every change, And each mutation makes me wince, I am not shut to all things strange-- I'm rather easy to convince.

But hereunto I set my seal, My nerves awry, askew, abristling: _I'll never change the way I feel_ _Upon the question of Free Whistling._

Unshackled Thoughts on Chivalry, Romance, Adventure, Etc.

Yesterday afternoon, while I was walking on Worth Street, A gust of wind blew my hat off.

I swore, petulantly, but somewhat noisily.

A young woman had been near, walking behind me; She must have heard me, I thought.

And I was ashamed, and embarra.s.sedly sorry.

So I said to her: "If you heard me, I beg your pardon."

But she gave me a frightened look And ran across the street, Seeking a policeman.

So I thought, Why waste five hours trying to versify the incident?

Vers libre would serve her right.

Results Ridiculous

("Humourists have amused themselves by translating famous sonnets into free verse. A result no less ridiculous would have been obtained if somebody had rewritten a pa.s.sage from 'Paradise Lost' as a rondeau."--GEORGE SOULE in the _New Republic_.)