From “The New York American.”

[Illustration:  SAMUEL ELLSWORTH KISER]

TO YOUTH AFTER PAIN

Since pain is the lot of all, we cannot hope to escape it.  Since only through pain can we come into true and helpful sympathy with men, we should not wish to escape it.

  What if this year has given
    Grief that some year must bring,
  What if it hurt your joyous youth,
    Crippled your laughter’s wing? 
  You always knew it was coming,
    Coming to all, to you,
  They always said there was suffering—­
    Now it is done, come through.

  Even if you have blundered,
    Even if you have sinned,
  Still is the steadfast arch of the sky
    And the healing veil of the wind.... 
  And after only a little,
    A little of hurt and pain,
  You shall have the web of your own old dreams
    Wrapping your heart again.

  Only your heart can pity
    Now, where it laughed and passed,
  Now you can bend to comfort men,
    One with them all at last,
  You shall have back your laughter,
    You shall have back your song,
  Only the world is your brother now,
    Only your soul is strong!

Margaret Widdemer.

From “The Old Road to Paradise.”

CAN’T

A great, achieving soul will not clog itself with a cowardly thought or a cowardly watchword.  Cardinal Richelieu in Bulwer-Lytton’s play declares: 

  “In the lexicon of youth, which fate reserves
  For a bright manhood, there is no such word
  As ‘fail.’”

“Impossible,” Napoleon is quoted as saying, “is a word found only in the dictionary of fools.”

  Can’t is the worst word that’s written or spoken;
    Doing more harm here than slander and lies;
  On it is many a strong spirit broken,
    And with it many a good purpose dies. 
  It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each morning
    And robs us of courage we need through the day: 
  It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning
    And laughs when we falter and fall by the way.

  Can’t is the father of feeble endeavor,
    The parent of terror and half-hearted work;
  It weakens the efforts of artisans clever,
    And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk. 
  It poisons the soul of the man with a vision,
    It stifles in infancy many a plan;
  It greets honest toiling with open derision
    And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a man.

  Can’t is a word none should speak without blushing;
    To utter it should be a symbol of shame;
  Ambition and courage it daily is crushing;
    It blights a man’s purpose and shortens his aim. 
  Despise it with all of your hatred of error;
    Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain;
  Arm against it as a creature of terror,
    And all that you dream of you some day shall gain.