Liberian Literary Magazine
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!
RUDYARD KIPLING
Promoting Liberian literature, Arts and Culture
Stopping By Woods On A
Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I
think I know.
His house is in the village,
though;
He will not see me stopping
here
To watch his woods fill up
with snow.
My little horse must think it
queer
To stop without a farmhouse
near
Between the woods and
frozen lake
The darkest evening of the
year.
He gives his harness bells a
shake
To ask if there is some
mistake.
The only other sound's the
sweep
Of easy wind and downy
flake.
The woods are lovely, dark,
and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I
sleep.
ROBERT FROST
If You Forget Me
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red
branch
of the slow autumn at my
window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the
log,
everything carries me to you,
63
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours
that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving
me
I shall stop loving you little by
little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have
forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have
roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined
for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek
me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished
or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love,
beloved,
and as long as you live it will
be in your arms
without leaving mine.
PABLO NERUDA