By Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you are losing
theirs and blaming 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, and don't deal in lies, or being hated and don't give way to hating,
and yet don't look too good, or 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 on heap of all your winnings and risk
it on a turn of pitch-and-toss, and start 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 not 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!


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