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 Each New Year's Eve I used to brood
On my misdoings of the past,
And vowed: "This year I'll be so good -
Well, haply better than the last.
" My record of reforms I read To Mum who listened sweetly to it: "Why plan all this, my son?" she said; "Just do it.
" Of her wise words I've often thought - Aye, sometimes with a pang of pain, When resolutions come to naught, And high resolves are sadly vain; The human heart from failure bleeds; Hopes may be wrecked so that we rue them .
Don't let us dream of lovely deeds - Just do them.
And so, my son, uphold your pride.
Believe serenely in your soul.
Just take things in a steady stride, Until behold! you've gained your goal.
But if, perchance, you frame a plan Of conduct, let it be a free one: Don't try to make yourself a man - Just be one.

Poem by Robert William Service
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