Read about Douglas Mawson, this poem kept him alive when suspended in an ice crevasse in the antarctic.

The Quitter
by Robert W. Service
When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child, 
And Death looks you bang in the eye, 
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle 
To cock your revolver and . . . die. 

But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can," 
And self-dissolution is barred. 
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . . 
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard. 

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame. 
You're young and you're brave and you're bright. 
"You've had a raw deal!" I know -- but don't squeal, 
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight. 

It's the plugging away that will win you the day, 
So don't be a piker, old pard! 
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit: 
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard. 

It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die; 
It's easy to crawfish and crawl; 
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight -- 
Why, that's the best game of them all! 

And though you come out of each grueling bout, 
All broken and beaten and scarred, 
Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die, 
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

For more inspiration - read the story of Antarctic explorer, Douglas Mawson.

This poem inspired him to stay alive (when the bottom skin of his feet had frozen off)--and he found himself hanging in an ice crevasse:

http://www.internal.org/Robert_W_Service/The_Quitter

The Quitter
by Robert W. Service

When you're lost in the Wild, 
and you're scared as a child, 
And Death looks you bang in the eye, 
And you're sore as a boil, 
it's according to Hoyle 
To cock your revolver and . . . die. 
But the Code of a Man says: 
"Fight all you can," 
And self-dissolution is barred. 

In hunger and woe, 
oh, it's easy to blow . . . 
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard. 
"You're sick of the game!" 
Well, now, that's a shame. 
You're young and you're brave and you're bright. 
"You've had a raw deal!" 
I know -- but don't squeal, 
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight. 

It's the plugging away that will win you the day, 
So don't be a piker, old pard! 
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit: 
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard. 
It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die; 
It's easy to crawfish and crawl; 
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight -- 
Why, that's the best game of them all! 

And though you come out of each grueling bout, 
All broken and beaten and scarred, 
Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die, 
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

A BIRTHDAY by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me. Raise me a daïs of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me. "A Birthday" by Christina Rossetti reprinted from Macmillan's Magazine (April 1861).

Orange Coffee Cup courtesy ~ copyright Gary Priester