If
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!
