Ella Wheeler Wilcox (Элла Уилкокс)
If (Twixt what thou art, and what thou wouldst be, let)
Twixt what thou art, and what thou wouldst be, let No ”If” arise on which to lay the blame. Man makes a mountain of that puny word, But, like a blade of grass before the scythe, It falls and withers when a human will, Stirred by creative force, sweeps toward its aim. Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. Circumstance Is but the toy of genius. When a soul Burns with a god-like purpose to achieve, All obstacles between it and its goal Must vanish as the dew before the sun. ”If” is the motto of the dilettante And idle dreamer; ’tis the poor excuse Of mediocrity. The truly great Know not the word, or know it but to scorn, Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died, Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.
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