By Bernhardt Paul Holst
It means a cross for faithful hands to carry,
In contest fierce, and with tireless brain;
It means that weary limbs must never tarry,
When right demands that we should try again.
At morn may beauty roses bloom in glory,
At noon may shrink and wither stem and leaves,
At night may all the world seem cold and hoary,
And yet should this the spirit vex and grieve?
You cringe because your hands are bleeding,
And seek a new and untried field for luck;
And soon release your grip, when you should be heeding
The fact that true success depends on pluck.
If you despair when days are clear and cloudless,
And dream that dreadful storms are raging overhead,
An awful ghost will rise before you shroudless,
And all your early hopes will soon be dead.
Success will surely come with time and labor,
If we our aims will carry far and high,
For we can win the plaudits of our neighbor,
And reach the goal by perseverance bye and bye.