A Poems for the ages

These are two of my favorite poems. I just found them on my computer and thought I'd share it.

I saw Jack Lemmon read this one on the Smother Brother's show when I was a kid.

Box, The

Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye,

Around about the wondrous days of yore,

They came across a kind of box

Bound up with chains and locked with locks

And labeled "Kindly do not touch; it's war."

A decree was issued round about, and all with a flourish and a shout

And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before.

Don't fiddle with this deadly box,Or break the chains, or pick the locks.

And please don't ever play about with war.

The children understood. Children happen to be good

And they were just as good around the time of yore.

They didn't try to pick the locksOr break into that deadly box.

They never tried to play about with war.

Mommies didn't either; sisters, aunts, grannies neither

'Cause they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty

In those wondrous days of yore.

Well, very much the same as now,

And not the ones to blame somehow

For opening up that deadly box of war.

But someone did. Someone battered in the lid

And spilled the insides out across the floor.

A kind of bouncy, bumpy ball made up of guns and flags

And all the tears, and horror, and death that comes with war.

It bounced right out and went bashing all about,

Bumping into everything in store.And what was sad and most unfair

Was that it didn't really seem to care

Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for.

It bumped the children mainly. And I'll tell you this quite plainly,

It bumps them every day and more, and more,

And leaves them dead, and burned, and dying

Thousands of them sick and crying.

'Cause when it bumps, it's really very sore.

Now there's a way to stop the ball. It isn't difficult at all.

All it takes is wisdom, and I'm absolutely sure

That we can get it back into the box,And bind the chains, and lock the locks.

But no one seems to want to save the children anymore.

Well, that's the way it all appears, 'cause it's been bouncing round

for years and years

In spite of all the wisdom wizzed since those wondrous days of yore

And the time they came across the box,

Bound up with chains and locked with locks,

And labeled "Kindly do not touch; it's war."

Lascelles Abercrombie

And I love almost anything by Kippling, but this is especially good.

If —

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!