Digging

The legendary Irish poet Seamus Heaney passed away.
Let's read a few of his poems. And let's begin with what he is perhaps best known for "Digging" (with his pen).

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

To listen to him read it: 

Digging 

The Caterpillar and the Butterfly

The Caterpillar And The Butterfly

-Enid Blyton

A caterpillar green and fat
Upon a juicy cabbage sat,
Eating all day through;
And when a dazzling butterfly,
Creamy-white, came sailing by,
They both said, "How d'ye do?"

"I hope you like my powdered wings,
They're just the very latest things,"
Said Butterfly, in glee.
"And see my tongue, so long and curled,
The finest one in all the world,
A treat for you to see."

"Poor caterpillar! You can't sip
The nectar from a flower's lip,
Nor fly the summer through!"

The caterpillar raised his head,
"Don;t pity me!" he rudely said,
"I'm better off than you!"

"I eat all day, I sit and stare,
I want no flying through the air,
I like to creep and crawl.
A butterfly I'd hate to be,
It's best to be a grub like me,
A caterpillar small!"

Then all the elves who listened near
Laughed like anything to hear
The quarrel 'twixt the two'
But neither the grub nor butterfly
Could ever guess, the reason why-
I know it though! Do you?

Nirvana

To listen to Tom Waits read it, go to: Hear Nirvana on youtube

not much chance,

completely cut loose from purpose,

he was a young man riding a bus

through North Carolina

on the wat to somewhere

and it began to snow

and the bus stopped

at a little cafe in the hills

and the passengers  entered.

he sat at the counter

with the others,

he ordered and the

food arived.

the meal was

particularly good

and the coffee.

the waitress was

unlike the women

he had known.

she was unaffected,

there was a natural

humor which came from her.

the fry cook said crazy things.

the dishwasher.

in back, laughed,

a good clean pleasant laugh.

the young man watched

the snow through the windows.

he wanted to stay in that cafe

forever.

the curious feeling

swam through him

that everything

was beautiful there,

that it would always

stay beautiful there.

then the bus driver

told the passengers

that it was time

to board.

the young man

thought, I'll just sit

here, I'll just stay

here.

but then

he rose and followed

the others into the

bus.

he found his seat

and looked at the cafe

through the bus

window.

then the bus moved

off, down a curve,

downward, out of

the hills.

the young man

looked straight forward.

he heard the other

passengers speaking

of other things,

or they were reading or

attempting to sleep.

they had not

noticed the magic.

the young man

put his head to

one side,

closed his eyes,

pretended to sleep.

there was nothing

else to do-

just to listen to the

sound of the engine,

the sound of the

tires in the snow.

Roll the Dice

This is an inspiring poem, one of my personal favourites.

By Charles Bukowski

If you’re going to try,

go all the way.

otherwise, don’t even start.

This could mean losing girlfriends,

wives, relatives, jobs and

maybe your mind.

It could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.

it could mean freezing on a

park bench.

it could mean jail,

it could mean derision,

it could mean mockery,

isolation.

Isolation is the gift,

all the others are a test

of your endurance,

of how much you really want to

do it.

and you’ll do it

despite rejection and the worst odds

and it will be better than

anything else

you can imagine.

If you’re going to try,

go all the way.

there is no other feeling like that.

you will be alone with the gods

and the nights will flame with fire.

You will ride life

straight to perfect laughter,

it's the only good fight there is.

Charles Bukowski

Listen in

I carry your heart with me

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in
my heart) I am never without it (anywhere
I go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

I fear no fate (for you are my fate,my sweet)
I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

E. E. Cummings 

Listen to Mark Coleman read it

Only Breath

Only Breath

Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu
Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion

or cultural system. I am not from the East
or the West, not out of the ocean or up

from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not
composed of elements at all. I do not exist,

am not an entity in this world or in the next,
did not descend from Adam and Eve or any

origin story. My place is placeless, a trace
of the traceless. Neither body or soul.

I belong to the beloved, have seen the two
worlds as one and that one call to and know,

first, last, outer, inner, only that
breath breathing human being. 

Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

To listen to the poem, click here

How do I love thee

How Do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

She walks in Beauty

She Walks In Beauty

She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent! 

George Gordon Lord Byron

Love Leviathan

When the intractable love leviathan attacks,

Upending that fine art of mindfulness,

Tearing away that joyful, soulful balance,  

Give it a good look; give it a fine thought.

Give it your days; give it your nights,

Watch in despair as it consumes your soul.

But if you can stand still, and not give up yet,

If you can fight, and your head is unbowed yet,

One day, one moment,

You shall stumble upon your old gold mine,

Muddied, yet faithfully guarding all your golden rays

That rush back home, to fill your mind, and your thoughts

To chase the leviathans away, slash them, burn them

Lightness fills the heart; cheer spreads the body,

Dark clouds lift, the glow that becomes the face.

Thus returns that wondrous laugh, from the depths of your heart

The sunshine and the lightness of spirit, so truly yours,

That same lightness that no leviathans can assail.  

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of dancing Daffodils;
Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: -
A poet could not but be gay
In such a laughing company:
I gaz'd - and gaz'd - but little thought
What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
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Daffodils, which is the more commonly known name of this poem is William Wordsworth's (1770-1850) most famous poem. He was a major English Romantic poet who, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped to launch the Romantic Age in English literature with the 1798 joint publication Lyrical Ballads.

 If you want to listen to the poem, here is Jeremy Irons reading it.

And, here is a picture of a single daffodil, with a cloud - if you want Wordsworth too to be in the picture.

Trivia: Daffodil the plant is known as Narcissus, and it is believed that the plant grew where the Greek God Narcissus died.

Commentary: (From SparkNotes)
This simple poem, one of the loveliest and most famous in the Wordsworth canon, revisits the familiar subjects of nature and memory, this time with a particularly (simple) spare, musical eloquence. The plot is extremely simple, depicting the poet’s wandering and his discovery of a field of daffodils by a lake, the memory of which pleases him and comforts him when he is lonely, bored, or restless.
The characterization of the sudden occurrence of a memory—the daffodils “flash upon the inward eye / Which is the bliss of solitude”—is psychologically acute, but the poem’s main brilliance lies in the reverse personification of its early stanzas. The speaker is metaphorically compared to a natural object, a cloud—“I wandered lonely as a cloud / That floats on high...”, and the daffodils are continually personified as human beings, dancing and “tossing their heads” in “a crowd, a host.”
This technique implies an inherent unity between man and nature, making it one of Wordsworth’s most basic and effective methods for instilling in the reader the feeling the poet so often describes himself as experiencing.

He composed this is 1804, inspired by a walk he took with his sister in 1802 and later by reading her journal entry. In fact the best two lines in the poem were contributed by his wife Mary. This is his sister Dorothy Wordsworth's original journal entry:

"When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow park we saw a few daffodils close to the water side, we fancied that the lake had floated the seed ashore & that the little colony had so sprung up - But as we went along there were more & yet more & at last under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful they grew among the mossy stones about & about them, some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness & the rest tossed and reeled and danced & seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the Lake, they looked so gay ever dancing ever changing. This wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here & there a little knot & a few stragglers a few yards higher up but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity & unity & life of that one busy highway - We rested again & again. The Bays were stormy & we heard the waves at different distances & in the middle of the water like the Sea"

Phenomenal Women

Phenomenal Women

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

By Maya Angelou

Ah! What a beauty! Such richness and elegance. Phenomenal. 

Have you ever noticed that the most beautiful things and the most beautiful feelings in the world are all disarmingly simple. 

To listen to Dr. Angelou herself reciting the poem, go to:

http://www.oprah.com/own-super-soul-sunday/Listen-Dr-Maya-Angelou-Recites-Her-Poem-Phenomenal-Woman-Video 

The Angel

I dreamt a dream!  What can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen
Guarded by an Angel mild:
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!

And I wept both night and day,
And he wiped my tears away;
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart's delight.

So he took his wings, and fled;
Then the morn blushed rosy red.
I dried my tears, and armed my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again;
I was armed, he came in vain;
For the time of youth was fled,
And grey hairs were on my head.

Here's the reading: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXU3SakigGQ

It's true of most of us. Before I armed my fears with ten thousand shields and spears, I was also the maiden Queen guarded by Angel mild.
Point noted.
Action to be taken noted.
Action shall be taken.

If you forget 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.

Neruda bug again. ;)
PS: I think I've already published this once. :)

The Call.

I have heard it all my life,
A voice calling a name I recognized as my own.
Sometimes it comes as a soft-bellied whisper.
Sometimes it holds an edge of urgency.
But always it says: Wake up, my love. You are walking asleep.
There’s no safety in that!
Remember what you are, and let a deeper knowing
color the shape of your humanness.
There is nowhere to go. What you are looking for is right here.
Open the fist clenched in wanting and see what you already hold in your hand.
There is no waiting for something to happen,
no point in the future to get to.
All you have ever longed for is here in this moment, right now.
You are wearing yourself out with all this searching.
Come home and rest.
How much longer can you live like this?
Your hungry spirit is gaunt, your heart stumbles. All this trying.
Give it up!
Let yourself be one of the God-mad,
faithful only to the Beauty you are.
Let the Lover pull you to your feet and hold you close,
dancing even when fear urges you to sit this one out.
Remember, there is one word you are here to say with your whole being.
When it finds you, give your life to it. Don’t be tight-lipped and stingy.
Spend yourself completely on the saying,
Be one word in this great love poem we are writing together.

If you want a reading, 
 
 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bwsM7bw0XM&feature=related

The Invitation

The Invitation
                  -- Oriah "Mountain Dreamer"

           

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

A friend of mine shared this, and thank you so much for that Sadu! :)

Auguries of Innocence

Auguries of Innocence

By William Blake

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands;

Throughout all these human lands,

Tools were made and born were hands,

Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.

One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

And listen to it, at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wi848QqLbdo 

Desiderata

“Some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious  ambiguity…”
– Gilda Radner

Desiderata (Latin: "desired things", perfect passive participle of desidero) is a 1927 prose poem by American writer Max Ehrmann (1872–1945). Largely unknown in the author's lifetime, the text became widely known after its use in a devotional, after subsequently being found at Adlai Stevenson's deathbed in 1965, and after spoken-word recordings in 1971 and 1972. [Wikipedia]

The full text:

Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit.


If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.


Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.


Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.


Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.


With all its shams, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

Now hear it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_F3KRPM0Ls 

If You Forget Me

Looks like I'm getting hooked onto poetry these days. Today, I want you to read an intensely passionate one. By Pablo Neruda. It's titled:

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,
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.

And here's Madonna reciting the same for you, most beautifully, and with meaningful pictures in the background.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f88n8eQCGvs&feature=related 

If!

It has been a while, hasnt it? Well, it has been a hell of a year so far! Awesomeness only gets better with each passing day - 2012 I LOVE YOU! And this is despite the fact that I didnt even qualify the CS (Mains) exam. No worries, babe! I'm doing this one last time now and it had better be good *self pat* If it doesnt turn out well, then lets just bow out! :)

Okay, I'm drifting away from the topic. If I've put 'Invictus' here, then I must go ahead and do the good thing - add Rudyard Kipling's 'IF' here. It's absolutely riveting, captivating, motivating etc etc etc. A treasure, I'd say! And a real pick-me-up, when you're not doing well and is not particularly happy with life. Well, go ahead and enjoy. And yes, kudos to the British stiff-upper lip spirit! You got me hooked there! :)

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 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!

Now, also enjoy the following:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pFaENAjk54s, by spokenverse
and
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=is-JCJCUy18&feature=related, by two of my favourite heroes on earth!

Explanation:

"If all men count with you" means: if you value each and every person; "but none too much" - but you do not favour one to the disadvantage of others
 
When Kipling states, "If you can fill the unforgiving minute, with sixty seconds' worth of distance run," he is saying that with every minute that you are given, make the absolute most of it that you can. "Unforgiving minute" refers to the fact that every single minute is 60 seconds long-no more, and no less. So when that minute is up, it is gone, forever. You can't call it back to spend that time differently. A minute is not merciful; it doesn't slow itself down to give you more time, or tack on a few seconds, or take a few of here or there. It is unforgiving time; always constant, always running. So, Kipling's advice is to fill every minute "with sixty seconds' worth of distance run," or to get as much good, effort, energy and distance out of every minute that you are given.
[Source: wikianswers]

Timeless Tagore

Remember me, still remember me,
if I go far away,
still remember me
If old love gets covered by the mesh of new love,
remember me
still remember me
If I stay close by,
yet you cannot see whether, like a shadow,
I am present or not,
remember me
still remember me
If tears come to your eyelids
If tears come to your eyelids
If play ceases one day, one spring night,
still remember me
If work is stopped one day, one autumn dawn,
remember me
If I come to your mind,
yet heavy tears no longer brim
in the corners of your eyes
still remember me
Remember me, still remember me

PS: Thanks to William Radice's article of the same title, published in the latest Frontline issue. Available online at http://www.frontlineonnet.com/stories/20120113282700400.htm