Whatever Odds There Are Poem by Henry Grantland Rice

GIVE me but room to fight my way,
I ask no other gift from Fate;
Though it should crowd on me at bay,
Where only ghosts and shadows wait.

Shadows of old defeats blown by,
Ghosts of old dreams drawn from life's pit;
Yet all I ask is room to try
And prove Fate cannot make me quit.

No glint of glory from the height,
No flare of fame to call me far;
Merely the ground to make my fight
Against whatever odds there are.