My name is Trouble—I’m a busy bloke—

    I am the test of Courage—and of Class—

  I bind the coward to a bitter yoke,

    I drive the craven from the crowning pass;

  Weaklings I crush before they come to fame;

    But as the red star guides across the night,

  I train the stalwart for a better game;

    I drive the brave into a harder fight.

  My name is Hard Luck—the wrecker of rare dreams—

    I follow all who seek the open fray;

  I am the shadow where the far light gleams

    For those who seek to know the open way;

  Quitters I break before they reach the crest,

    But where the red field echoes with the drums,

  I build the fighter for the final test

    And mold the brave for any drive that comes.

  My name is Sorrow—I shall come to all

    To block the surfeit of an endless joy;

  Along the Sable Road I pay my call

    Before the sweetness of success can cloy;

  And weaker souls shall weep amid the throng

    And fall before me, broken and dismayed;

  But braver hearts shall know that I belong

    And take me in, serene and unafraid.

I show the way, at last, beyond the foe,

    To where the scarlet flames of triumph burn.

Grantland Rice