The poem
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.