Life is sweet just because of the friends we have made and the things which
    in common we share;
We want to live on not because of ourselves, but because of the people who
    care;
It’s giving and doing for somebody else—­on that all life’s splendor
    depends,
And the joy of this world, when you’ve summed it all up, is found in the
    making of friends.

The Deeds of Anger

I used to lose my temper an’ git mad an’ tear around
An’ raise my voice so wimmin folks would tremble at the sound;
I’d do things I was ashamed of when the fit of rage had passed,
An’ wish I hadn’t done ’em, an’ regret ’em to the last;
But I’ve learned from sad experience how useless is regret,
For the mean things done in anger are the things you can’t forget.

’Tain’t no use to kiss the youngster once your hand has made him cry;
You’ll recall the time you struck him till the very day you die;
He’ll forget it an’ forgive you an’ to-morrow seem the same,
But you’ll keep the hateful picture of your sorrow an’ your shame,
An’ it’s bound to rise to taunt you, though you long have squared the debt,
For the things you’ve done in meanness are the things you can’t forget.

Lord, I sometimes sit an’ shudder when some scene comes back to me,
Which shows me big an’ brutal in some act o’ tyranny,
When some triflin’ thing upset me an’ I let my temper fly,
An’ was sorry for it after—­but it’s vain to sit an’ sigh. 
So I’d be a whole sight happier now my sun begins to set,
If it wasn’t for the meanness which I’ve done an’ can’t forget.

Now I think I’ve learned my lesson an’ I’m treadin’ gentler ways,
An’ I try to build my mornings into happy yesterdays;
I don’t let my temper spoil ’em in the way I used to do
An’ let some splash of anger smear the record when it’s through;
I want my memories pleasant, free from shame or vain regret,
Without any deeds of anger which I never can forget.

I’d Rather Be a Failure

I’d rather be a failure than the man who’s never tried;
I’d rather seek the mountain-top than always stand aside. 
Oh, let me hold some lofty dream and make my desperate fight,
And though I fail I still shall know I tried to serve the right.

The idlers line the ways of life and they are quick to sneer;
They note the failing strength of man and greet it with a jeer;
But there is something deep inside which scoffers fail to view—­
They never see the glorious deed the failure tried to do.

Some men there are who never leave the city’s well-worn streets;
They never know the dangers grim the bold adventurer meets;
They never seek a better way nor serve a nobler plan;
They never risk with failure to advance the cause of man.

Oh, better ’tis to fail and fall in sorrow and despair,
Than stand where all is safe and sure and never face a care;
Yes, stamp me with the failure’s brand and let men sneer at me,
For though I’ve failed the Lord shall know the man I tried to be.