Poem

twodoodles
Senior Member

Joined: 02 June 2007
Posts: 168

Posted: 18 October 2008 at 2:07pm \| IP Logged

My A.D.H.D. Child
by Tracy Nicolaus

He's bouncin' off walls, a super ball gone insane,
He runs through your world like a off-rail freight train,
Interruptions are constant, tantrums galore,
When it's time to do homework, he's gone, out the door.

The drama is constant, oh his foot fell asleep,
He moans and he wails, the theatrics run deep,
School is a nightmare, the teachers are lost,
If they only could see, he is worth the cost.

He is brighter than most, as most kids are,
And with patience and love, I know he'll go far,
But what I must take from well meaning friends
Don't let him do that. Oh these rules that he bends.

You're not a good parent. Your child's really rude.
His temper's Outrageous. He has hands in his food.
He hears this and wonders, just what's wrong with me?
I tell him, You're special, you have A.D.H.D.

Now A.D.H.D. is a gift from above,
It teaches us grown-ups how to strengthen our love.
It helps to teach your teachers, no two kids are the same.
You have awesome energy that could bring you great fame.

You don't need much sleep, you never wear down.
You're silly and funny, when you act like a clown.
You've felt lots of pain from what people have said,
But you pray for those people when you go to bed.

So you try every day to make a fresh start,
For God gifted you with an extra big heart.
As I look at my child, he sees through my soul,
My heart feels like busting, as I realize my goal.

I know this boy like no one else could,
He's a blessing to me, he's strong and he's good.
So I'll love him and guide him through the worst of the worst,
And he'll make a great man (if I don't kill him first).

I'm kidding of course 'cause I know what's to be,
When I look in his eyes, I see a reflection of me.

twodoodles
Senior Member

Joined: 02 June 2007
Posts: 168

Posted: 18 October 2008 at 2:09pm \| IP Logged

I'm sure there are alot of parents that have read this one before, but I wanted to share just incase someone hasn't read it and needs a little inspiration.

Any other good stuff out there you'd like to share?

I was going through some old postsand liked this one!Thanks for posting that one again. Poem about adhd are a nice diversion from the daily rigors of dealing with it.

I read another one I can't seem to find, any help would be appreciated. I beleive I read it on this forum about a year and a half ago.

It was written by a high school girl I believe aimed at her teachers. there was some line in it about her IEP, or something like that. Hope someone can help me locate it.
I may have read it in that" attention" magazine...
Our child advocate sent us this. Enjoy!
DR. SEUSS' IEPS
(Rhythm from Green Eggs & Ham)

Do you like these IEPs?

I do not like these IEPs
I do not like them, Geez Louise
We test, we check
We plan, we meet
But nothing ever seems complete

Would you, could you like the form?

I do not like the form I see
Not page 1, not 2, not 3
Another change
A brand new box
I think we all
Have lost our rocks

Could you all meet here or there?

We could not all meet here or there
We cannot all fit anywhere!
Not in a room
Not in the hall
There seems to be no space at all

Would you, could you meet again?

I cannot meet again next week
No lunch, no prep
Please hear me speak
No not at dusk. No not at dawn
At 4 p.m. I should be gone

Could you hear while all speak out?
Would you write the words they spout?

I could not hear, I would not write
This does not need to be a fight
Sign here, date there
Mark this, check that
Beware the student's ad-vo-cat(e)

You do not like them
So you say
Try again, try again!
And you may

If you will let me be
I will try again
You'll see

Say!
I almost like these IEPs!
I think I'll write six thousand three
And I will practice day and night
Until they say
"You've got it right!"

Anonymous
Brought to you for your enjoyment by The Autism Society of California, ASA

The Men That Don’t Fit In
by Robert Service(1907)

ADHD Poem
There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t sit still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: “Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope th
at’s dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;
He’s a man who won’t fit in.Brightened my mood! I love the poems. Thanks ommas! I'm going to save these!

The vulnerable child

She stands away from you,

Your odd eyes consider she,

You amongst your friends

Use the same eye to see.

You share your private joke,

And that it mocks her, she does fear

you amongst your friends

use the same ear to hear.

And when she walks away

a fun event did you all share

you amongst your friends

use the same heart to care.

Despite all your eyes, ears and hearts,

you still don't see, hear or care

That in a corner she sits all alone,

Trying to patch the hole in

her heart you have torn

there.

God Bless the ADHD child...

A poem, by well... Me:) Edited by Dave2u4now on 28 January 2006 at 10:50am

Growing Up With ADD/ADHD

By Garrett Age 16

All the thoughts that they had
All the stares I thought I got
All the times I felt different
Have made me hate ADHD

All the times I got support
All the times I felt loved
All the times I felt special
Have made me love ADHD

All the times I got yelled at
All the times I cried alone
All the times I was weired
Have made me hate ADHD

All the times I did it right
All the times I felt good about my self
All the times I was happy
Have made me love ADHD

All this has made me who I am today
Maybe Different
Maybe Strange
Maybe Weird

But do you know what I think?
That I am unique
That I am special
That I am loved
All from a little thing called ADHD/ADD.

By Garrett

The Old Men Come to See Me

The old men come to see me.

And they are wary.

As men usually are.

They will submit to my touch.

And can't imagine that the

hand of another man could ever

help much, or for long.

I wait, imagining myself pliable.

And when the sad burden of

their life rises to the surface,

that is what I finally palpate.

They begin to move me with

their unrequited longing to rest

in a place no one has encouraged them to go.

And I simply follow them there.

"I'm doing better". They say,

"You've done a good job".

Like a key in a lock, their

words open my heart.

And I know I can never

get enough of this.

The old men come to see me

And for that, I will always

remain here.

Barrett L. Dorko

ommas40130.2765972222

Where I Need To Be

By Sheila

My name is Bobby I have A.D.D.,
Kids at school laugh at me.
Saying I am dumb that is just not true,
I want to learn but don't know how to.
When others laugh it makes me cry,
My mom cries to I do not know why.
Mother insists I have a heart of gold,
She knew this before I was two years old.
My family gets upset not knowing how to help,
While attempting homework sometimes will yell.
Reading is hard to understand for me,
Math sometimes makes me scream!
Teachers say I am a problem child,
During school time I act wild.
The moment when my activity I cannot halt,
The way I behave is not my fault.
Others belittle me I want to cry,
Why can't I learn? Why? Why? Why?
Thoughts at night keep me from sleep.
Concept of time I am unable to keep.
It hurts my heart insults I must listen to,
Impossible explaining. What will I do?
I went to a specialist, he gave me Adderall
He promises it will help me, I pray that it will.
And now I go to a wonderful school,
I am understanding a lot, School is cool.
All the kids have difficulty learning,
With teachers help an education we are learning.
They have a thing called an I.E.P.
It assist in reaching Where I Need To Be.
It may sound complicated, but really its not.
Measures the amount of knowledge I have got.
We do not get grades, but that is okay,
Since I totally learn new things every day.
My mom still cries but tears of joy,
Because the people there know I AM a good boy.

By Shelia

The Boy with Ants in his Pants
A Story of Success
By Michael Sandler

The boy with ants in his pants
He wasn’t thinking ‘bout France
Focus he could
And knew that he would
If he just could get out of his trance

The boy with ants in his pants
Would fight with all of his might
to sit at that desk
and forget all the rest
and follow the lecture just right

The boy with ants in his pants
He wasn’t trying to dance
With the desk he would wrestle
It was more than a hassle
Problem child would they say at first glance

The boy with ants in his pants
A ruckus in class he did cause
He fell on the floor
Teacher screamed now no more
And off to the dean now he was

The boy with ants in his pants
He knew he was misunderstood
He wanted to study
And had not a buddy
But wished that if only he could

The boy with ants in his pants
The kids they were cruel and they teased
He wanted some friends
And to play till the end
But try as he might could not please

The boy with ants in his pants
ADD found he had and was sad
But no need to worry
And no need to scurry
There were ways to help him feel glad

The boy with ants in his pants
Through the doc found some answers for him
He had fun with the kids
Teachers found he had gifts
And he took this thing called Ritalin

The boy with ants in his pants
Wanted positive thoughts in his head
To a counselor he went
Given a chance to vent
Now self-esteem where once there was dread

The boy with ants in his pants
Wanted tools and techniques for success
With a coach they did plot
Strategize and the lot
And now he’s doing his best

The boy with ants in his pants
Happy today and grown up
Creative and smart
Success from the start
Because he never gave up!

So you found that you have ADD
It’s not such a problem you see
You can be what you want
Have friends, play and jaunt
Be a kid now and play so happy.

So you found that you have ADD
It means you’re not really lazy
You try hard to study
It’s just you were fuzzy
But with help it’s now so easy

So you’ve found that you have ADD
It’s a great thing in time you will see
You can be quite creative
Smart and innovative
You are quite insightful
Quick bright and delightful
And you think just as fast as can be

So you wonder what someday you’ll be?
This kid who now has ADD
The whole worlds now your playground
You’ll be what your hearts found
Be it doctor or nurse,
or singer of verse
An actor or dancer,
Space Shuttle Commander
You can be just what you want to be!

Whistle While You Work

Just whistle while you work
And cheerfully together we can tidy up the place
So hum a merry tune
It won't take long when there's a song to help you set the pace

And as you sweep the room
Imagine that the broom is someone that you love
And soon you'll find you're dancing to the tune

(Spoken: Oh, no, no, no, no! Put them in the tub)
When hearts are high the time will fly so whistle while you work

*(Another version)*
Just whistle while you work
Put on that grin and start right in to whistle loud and long
Just hum a merry tune
Just do your best and take a rest and sing yourself a song

When there's too much to do
Don't let it bother you, forget your troubles,
Try to be just like a cheerful chick-a-dee

And whistle while you work
Come on get smart, tune up and start
To whistle while you work “Beauty Tips”

for attractive lips, speak words of kindness…

for lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.

for a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.

for beautiful hair, let a child run his/her fingers through it once a day.

for poise, walk with the knowledge that you never walk alone…

people, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; never throw out anyone.

Audrey Hepburn

***

POEM

Reading to the Children

by Herbert Morris

The first child asks me: Are these poems yours?

The second asks: Where do you get ideas?

The third child says: I have always loved poems.

The fourth child wonders: What makes poems poems?

The fifth one asks: Which of them is your favorite?

The sixth one asks me: Is there ice cream later?

The seventh child asks: Is a poem dreaming?

To the first, who now fidgets with her hair,

inspects her nails, her dress, who may, in fact,

have little need to know what she has asked,

for whom the question, as well as the answer,

may well prove merely one more temporary

distraction in a day filled with distractions,

I say: Yes, these are poems I have written.

I could read no one else’s half so clearly,

with as much feeling, as I read you these;

that, more than anything, may be what I would

leave with you, feeling—music, of course, meaning,

certainly, but first feeling, feeling foremost.

The second child, holding his head to one side

as he speaks, pokes a finger in his ear,

looks at me as a child looks at “a poet”

who may never before have seen a poet,

seems in need of an answer to his question,

an answer I do not have, yet I answer:

I may not know where an idea comes from;

perhaps for days a phrase repeats itself,

perhaps a title, words which, isolated,

lack all meaning (“blue plums”); or situations

present themselves which seem, somehow, imbued

with those lights, half-lights, shadings, which address you

intimately, beyond all explanation,

whispering in your ear of resonance,

promising difficulty, complication.

I am able to glimpse, half-glimpse, its contours,

feel the weight it displaces (dimly, vaguely).

I am moving from darkness into darkness,

from mystery to deeper mystery;

what I see seems no plainer, seems no clearer,

the deeper I go, than it seemed, but rather

infinitely more complicated, darker.

If my answer succeeds in making nothing

simpler than it was, fails, utterly fails,

at illumination, it will convey

an approximation of my own state.

The third child smiles, nods her head up and down,

this way and that, assenting, acquiescing,

wanting me to agree, needing to hear

I, too, the poet, too, “always loved poems.”

I am unable to confess that to her.

To the nodder I say: I did not love them

for what may well have been too long a time.

Apart from jingles we were taught at school,

I did not know just what a poem was,

what poetry might be. Only much later,

having by will, with effort, I suppose,

struggled to lead myself directly to it,

to bring myself to it, at last confront it

(convinced, I now suspect, I needed, needed,

to know what poems were, or poetry),

applied myself—what philosopher said

“It is all a matter of application”?—

read poet after poet, some too facile,

some too windy, some few whose lines I cherished,

those who drew me closer and closer to them.

I have not, I admit, “always loved poems,”

but those I came to love I live with, fiercely.

To the fourth child, sitting cross-legged before me,

light-haired, green-eyed, quite puzzled, Lady Wisdom

in a reflective mood, sensing which questions

beg to be asked, which never need be asked,

wanting, as any bright child wants, to know

why what I have been reading are called poems

(rather than maps, or cats, or inundations),

I convey, once more, doubt, uncertainty.

These are poems because I call them that,

because, when I think of them, I think “poem.”

Should it please you to call them something else,

cucumbers, avocados, I accept that:

what you will name a poem is a poem,

becomes a poem, in the act of naming.

If this seems arbitrary to you, lacking

precision, the sheer weight of scientific

provability, it will have succeeded

in translating something of our dilemma.

We begin in ignorance, move through darkness

into the darkness, end in ignorance.

Poems are that, precisely: expeditions

mapping terrain where we have never been,

the landscape of the country of our blindness.

The fifth child, wearing white shorts and a smile

from here to there, and past that, wanting neither

the feel of things, their tone, their texture, nor

the consolations of exactitude,

statistics which, in time, attach themselves

to the object, whatever its name, under

scrutiny at the moment, asks my favorite

(as though that mattered), could as well have asked

the exact height and weight of each, how many

teeth each possesses. This is my response:

After completing “A,” I liked it, liked it

better, perhaps, than what had come before it,

but when “B” seemed to drive a little further

into the dark surrounding it (a progress

meager, at best, those slow, minute advances

barely perceptible at such close range),

“A” was replaced by “B,” however briefly.

Now I feel about “B” that it may have said

too much and, at the same time, said too little,

went not as far as, once, it seemed to go,

not as deep as perhaps it might have gone.

Each poem seemed, just finished, what I wanted,

thought I wanted, viewed from this distance, middle-

ground, back-ground, none seems what I had intended.

The sixth child blinks his eyes, swivels his head,

left to right, right to left, then rolls his tongue,

smacks his lips, makes a sound one-part delight

to one-part sheer boyish anticipation.

In the light of the values he assigns,

fails to assign, reminded once more of

the place of words, the homelessness of words

(“Words, in the end, words alone, are what matter,”

that philosopher said, or might have said),

I feel it necessary to respond:

Ice cream? Of course there will be ice cream later,

more flavors than you knew existed, cookies

shaped like cottages (plumes of chocolate coiling

from crumb-top chimneys), candied apples, plum tarts.

By the time the desserts are brought and passed

(I suggest this for your consideration,

no more than that, one possibility

among the many which may offer themselves),

what you have heard (and, hearing, felt) may well seem

more astonishing than the crisps, the pastries,

the butterscotch napoleons, the rum balls,

mocha parfaits, coconut wafers, jam cakes,

the goblets of vanilla-laced-with-mangoes,

brought on trays from the pantry. One can know that

only at the conclusion, having sampled,

one by one, what was deftly laid before you,

poems read, plates passed, music heard, half-heard,

a judgment reached, or not reached, a choice made.

The seventh child addresses principles

fundamental, it would seem, to the context.

This seventh child has learned what I have not:

how not to be seduced by strains of music

glimmering in the words, above, beneath,

by floats, delights, whips, fizzes, freezes, sundaes,

concern for logic, reason, meaning, order,

for the demands of shapeliness, proportion.

He scans the sky with those dark eyes, he calls

a bird by its true name (a “ring-tailed swallow”),

he claims to hear the pounding of the surf,

the sweep of rain across the dazzling air,

although the sea lies days and nights from here

and storms have not been forecast for tomorrow.

I answer awkwardly, and yet I answer:

I hesitated when it was proposed

I read to you from poems I had written,

not because I would have denied you music,

not because I would not have had them touch you,

could they have touched you, but because my dreams

now seem the subject, have become the subject.

To read these poems to you is to tell you

what I dream, what my name is, who I may be.

Last night I dreamt a poet read to children,

seven children, each of whom asked a question

having, for the most part, to do with poems.

The lines the poet read were his responses,

his attempts at responses, to those children,

each of his answers asked more than it answered.

The poet wore my face, his clothes were my clothes,

the voice was mine, pitch, range, inflection, timbre,

the dream-words in that dream-speech were these words.

I was the man who stood before them reading,

you were the children, you, the seven children.

These were the lines I dream-spoke, line by line,

this was the poem, this, the very poem.

Why Women Cry

Submitted by: thecircleguru

Author: Unknown

Why Women Cry

A little boy asked his mother, "Why are you crying?" "Because I'm a woman," she told him.

"I don't understand," he said. His Mom just hugged him and said, "And you never will."

Later the little boy asked his father, "Why does mother seem to cry for no reason?"

"All women cry for no reason," was all his dad could say.

The little boy grew up and became a man, still wondering why women cry.

Finally he put in a call to God. When God got on the phone, he asked, "God, why do women cry so easily?"

God said, "When I made the woman she had to be special.

I made her shoulders strong enough to carry the weight of the world,

yet gentle enough to give comfort.

I gave her an inner strength to endure childbirth and the rejection that many times comes from her children.

I gave her a hardness that allows her to keep going when everyone else gives up, and take care of her family through sickness and fatigue without complaining.

I gave her the sensitivity to love her children under any and all circumstances, even when her child has hurt her very badly.

I gave her strength to carry her husband through his faults and fashioned her from his rib to protect his heart.

I gave her wisdom to know that a good husband never hurts his wife, but sometimes tests her strengths and her resolve to stand beside him unfalteringly.

And finally, I gave her a tear to shed. This is hers exclusively to use whenever it is needed."

"You see my son," said God, "the beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair.

The beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart - the place where love resides."

I woke up early today, excited over all I get to do
before the clock strikes midnight.

I have responsibilities to fulfil today.
I am important.
My job is to choose what kind of day I am going to have.

Today..
I can complain because the weather is rainy
or
I can be thankful that the grass is getting
watered for free.

Today..
I can feel sad that I don't have more money
or
I can be glad that my finances encourage me to plan my
purchases wisely and guide me away from waste.

Today..
I can grumble about my health
or
I can rejoice that I am alive.

Today..
I can lament over all that my parents
didn't give me when I was growing up
or
I can feel grateful that they allowed me to be born.

Today..
I can cry because roses have thorns
or
I can celebrate that thorns have roses.

Today..
I can mourn my lack of friends
or
I can excitedly embark upon a quest
to discover new relationships.

Today..
I can whine because I have to go to work
or
I can shout for joy because I have a job to do.

Today..
I can complain because I have to go to school
or
eagerly open my mind and fill it with rich new
titbits of knowledge.

Today..
I can murmur dejectedly because I have to do housework
or
I can feel honoured because the Lord has provided
shelter for my mind, body and soul.

Today..
Stretches ahead of me, waiting to be shaped.
And here I am, the sculptor who gets to do the shaping.

What today will be like is up to me.
I get to choose what kind of day I will have!

Have a Great Day...
Unless you have other plans.

Author unknown

life tips

It hurts to love someone and not be loved in return, but what is more painful is to love someone and never find the courage to let that person know how you feel.
A sad thing in life is when you meet someone who means a lot to you, only to find out in the end that it was never meant to be and you just have to let go.
The best kind of friend is the kind you can sit on a porch swing with, never say a word, and then walk away feeling like it was the best conversation you've ever had.
It's true that we don't know what we've got until we lose it, but it's also true that we don't know what we've been missing until it arrives.
It takes only a minute to get a crush on someone, an hour to like someone, and a day to love someone but it takes a lifetime to forget someone.
Don't go for looks; they can deceive. Don't go for wealth; even that fades away. Go for someone who makes you smile because it only takes a smile to make a dark day seem bright.
Dream what you want to dream; go where you want to go; be what you want to be; because you have only one life and one chance to do all the things you want to.
Always put yourself in the other's shoes. If you feel that it hurts you, it probably hurts the other too.
A careless word may kindle strife; a cruel word may wreck a life; a timely word may level stress; a loving word may heal and bless.
The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything, they just make the most of everything that comes along their way.
Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss, ends with a tear. When you were born, you were crying and everyone around you was smiling. Live life so that when you die...you are the one smiling and everyone around you is crying.

Mean Moms

Someday when my children are old enough to
understand the logic that motivates a parent, I will
tell them, as my Mean Mom told me:
I loved you enough . . . to ask where you were going, with whom,and what time you would be home.
I loved you enough to be silent and let you discover that your new best friend was a creep.
I loved you enough to stand over you for two hours
while you cleaned your room, a job that should have taken 15 minutes.
I loved you enough to let you see anger,
disappointment, and tears in my eyes.
Children must
learn that their parents aren't perfect.
I loved you enough to let you assume the
responsibility for your actions even when the
penalties were so harsh they almost broke my heart.
But most of all, I loved you enough . . . to say
NO when I knew you would hate me for it.

Those were the most difficult battles of all. I'm
glad I won them, because in the end you won, too.
And someday when your children are old enough to
understand the logic that motivates parents, you will tell them.

Was your Mom mean?
I know mine was.
We had the meanest mother in the whole world!
While other kids
ate candy for breakfast, we had to have cereal, eggs, and toast.
When others had a Pepsi and a Twinkie for lunch, we had to eat sandwiches.
And you can guess our mother fixed us a dinner that was
different from what other kids had, too.

Mother insisted on knowing where we were at all
times. You'd think we were convicts in a prison. She
had to know who our friends were, and what we were
doing with them. She insisted that if we said we
would be gone for an hour, we would be gone for an hour or less.

We were ashamed to admit it, but she had the nerve
to break the Child Labor Laws by making us work.
We had to wash the dishes, make the beds, learn to cook, vacuum the floor, do laundry,
empty the trash and all sorts of cruel jobs.
I think she would lie awake at night thinking of more things for us to do.

She always insisted on us telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. By the time we were teenagers, she could read our minds and had eyes in the back of her head. Then, life was really tough!

Mother wouldn't let our friends just honk the horn
when they drove up. They had to come up to the door so she could meet them. While everyone else could date when they were 12 or 13, we had to wait until we were 16.

Because of our mother we missed out on lots of
things other kids experienced. None of us have ever
been caught shoplifting, vandalizing other's property or ever arrested for any crime.
It was all her fault. Now that we have left home, we are all educated,
honest adults.We are doing our best to be mean
parents just like Mom was.

I think that is what's wrong with the world today.
It just doesn't have enough mean moms!

i dont know who wrote this

ommas40132.5808101852

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 imposters 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 breath 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!

If
By Rudyard Kipling
1895, published in Rewards and Fairies, 1910

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