The Conqueror Poem by Henry Grantland Rice

HERE I shall wait
To meet the rush of some relentless fate,
Content to know that I will be supreme
Against the bitter sword that life may wave;
Where I will hold to one eternal dream
Of valor riding roughshod to the grave.

Here I shall stand
Against misfortune, with its crushing hand,
And, though it crowd me to the lowest pit
Where I shall see no starlight in the sky,
Yet I shall struggle upward, bit by bit,
Until I see the white dawn drifting by.

For any soul
The fight is more important than the goal.
Strife, toil and struggle, with their share of pain,
Are winning trainers down the long, hard beat,
And fate, in all its fury, sweeps in vain
Against the soul that marches through defeat.

The game means more
Than any flare of glory from the score ;
The dawn is brighter that we see at last
Through shadows blacker than the stain of sin;
And when we know the final fight is past,
What is there left worth while for me to win ?