The poem
Striving is life, yet life is striving; I fight to live, yet live to fight; The vital urge is in my driving, Yet I must drive with all my might: Each day a battle, and the fray Stoutly renewed the coming day.
A am myself - yet when I strive I build a self that's truer, higher; I keep my bit of God alive And forgive me in heroic fire: What if my goal I never gain - Better to toil than to attain.
It is not what I do or make, It is the travail of my trying; The aim, the effort and the ache Is in the end my glorifying: Through triumph I may never see, The will to win is victory.
Striving is strength: with all that's in me I will not falter in the fray; And though no shining crown it win me, I'll fight unto my latest day: Strive on! - and though I win no place, Uphold the spirit of the race.
Behold yon peaks that mock my climbing. . . . I peer from out the dusty plain; Dark falls, the mission bells are chiming As on to starry heights I strain; Despite the night up, up I plod To gain the golden meads of God.