9 Courage poems

for Yu Luoke Perhaps the final hour is come I have left no testament Only a pen, for my mother I am no hero In an age without heroes I just want to be a man The still horizon Divides the ranks of the living and the dead I can only choose the sky I will not kneel on the ground Allowing the executioners to look tall The better to obstruct the wind of freedom From star-like bullet holes shall flow A blood-red dawn

There is no fear in taking the first step or the second or the third having a position between several Popes In fact the top can be reached without disaster precocious The code consists in noticing the particular shade of the staircase occasionally giving way to the emotions It has been chosen discriminately To graduate the dimensions ease them into sight republic of space Radiant deepness a thumb passed over it disarming as one who executes robbers Waving the gnats and the small giants aside balancing How to surprise a community by excellence somehow it occurred living a public life The original design was completed no one complained In a few years it was forgotten floating It was framed like any other work of art not too ignobly kicking the ladder away Now I shall tell you why it is beautiful Design: extraordinary color:    cobalt blue secret platforms Heels twist it into shape It has a fantastic area made for a tread that will ascend Being humble i.e. productive Its purpose is to take you upward On an elevator of human fingerprints of the most delicate fixity Being practical and knowing its denominator To push one foot ahead of the other Being a composite which sneers at marble all orthodox movements It has discovered in the creak of a footstep the humility of sound Spatially selective using this counterfeit of height To substantiate a method of progress Reading stairs as interpolation in the problem of gradualness with heavy and pure logic The master builder acknowledges this As do the artists in their dormer rooms eternal banishment Who are usually grateful to anyone who prevents them from taking a false step And having reached the summit would like to stay there even if the stairs are withdrawn

My heart be brave, and do not falter so, Nor utter more that deep, despairing wail. Thy way is very dark and drear I know, But do not let thy strength and courage fail; For certain as the raven-winged night Is followed by the bright and blushing morn, Thy coming morrow will be clear and bright; ’Tis darkest when the night is furthest worn. Look up, and out, beyond, surrounding clouds, And do not in thine own gross darkness grope, Rise up, and casting off thy hind’ring shrouds, Cling thou to this, and ever inspiring hope: Tho’ thick the battle and tho’ fierce the fight, There is a power making for the right.

Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!

When the last fight is lost, the last sword broken; The last call sounded, the last order spoken; When from the field where braver hearts lie sleeping, Faint, and athirst, and blinded, I come creeping, With not one waving shred of palm to bring you, With not one splendid battle-song to sing you, O Love, in my dishonor and defeat, Your measureless compassion will be sweet.

if this is a game then we have made it, unknowing, to the final four. unlikely underdogs. spectators turned to suspect sport. anti-athletes. out of shape beyond reason. at season’s height we fight for a limited audience. few dancers. fewer cheers. down by 30 and our coach m.i.a. we, foolish, dribble. each bounce-back brings a stranger. can’t call us for traveling because we ain’t going nowhere. instead, we trade terrified looks. search for the pass but no one stays open for long. even if we knew what to do to pull this through we’ve got two other teams waiting, impatient, to take us out.

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? —It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright; Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower: Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives: By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; Is placable—because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. —'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labours good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows: —Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all: Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need: —He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love:— 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity,— Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not— Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape or danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name— Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is he That every man in arms should wish to be.

T HE single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.

A rung’s come broken in the ladder to the mow and so one hesitates to clamber up there just to bomb a cow with dung or bother swallows from their rafter cakes. It takes a new footing some- where in the ribs’ treads, about heart- height, to climb it now. A new gap’s in the smile that smiles from the limed barn floor. There seems to come a break in the war. But soon, one of a neighbor’s sons, too young to know it was otherwise once, braves it, and soon, even with a sweater- swaddled kitten or a BB gun, all the kids can do it again, nearly at a run, like pros, and so it goes, as before.