It was not anything she said; It was not anything she did; It was the movement of her head, The lifting of her lid. And as she trod her path aright Power from her very garments stole; For such is the mysterious might God grants a noble soul.
True worth is in being, not seeming; In doing, each day that goes by, Some little good, not in dreaming, Of great things to do by and by. For whatever men say in their blindness, And spite of the fancies of youth, There's nothing so kingly as kindness, And nothing so royal as truth.
The wisest man could ask no more of Fate Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Safe from the Many, honored by the Few; To count as naught in world of church or state But inwardly in secret to be great.
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, Shall draw the Thing as he sees it, for the God of Things as they are.
In life's small things be resolute and great To keep thy muscle trained; knowest thou when Fate Thy measure takes? or when she'll say to thee, "I find thee worthy; do this deed for me"?
'Tis a lifelong toil till our lump be leaven. The better! What's come to perfection perishes. Things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven. Work done least rapidly Art most cherishes.
Let come what will, I mean to bear it out, And either live with glorious victory Or die with fame, renowned in chivalry. He is not worthy of the honey-comb That shuns the hive because the bees have stings.
One by one thy duties wait thee, Let thy whole strength go to each. Let no future dreams elate thee, Learn thou first what these can teach.
Give me heart-touch with all that live And strength to speak my word; But if that is denied me, give The strength to live unheard.
Honor and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honor lies
How wretched is the man with honors crowned, Who, having not the one thing needful found, Dies, known to all, but to himself unknown.
He fought a thousand glorious wars, And more than half the world was his, And somewhere, now, in yonder stars, Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.