To flower in Failure rank or other breeds
Of Mishap, Chance and Ill-luck that assails.
Wouldst thou succeed? Finish the work in hand
Nor dabble here and there while Time goes on
And naught is done—and one by one the sand
Of moment, turns to heaps of hours gone.
Finish—Finish—at the dawn of light
’Twas stamped in stars across the perfect night.
John Trotwood Moore.
