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To you, the Class of 1925,
All cups are raised in this, your hour of triumph,
Your time is ripe. The world is yours. Come, take it!
Through four short years, the best you've ever spent
Or e'er will spend, you've--well, what have you done?
You've studied some, enough, perhaps, to learn
How small a thing a man is, yet how great.
If this you've learned and nothing more,
What matters it you can't recall the date
Of Caesar's crossing of the Rubicon?
The world cries out for men, not dictionaries.
And as forever you depart from hence,
Think over once again these wise old words
The Harvard sage, the greatest of them all,
Wrote down almost a hundred years ago:
"There comes a time in each man's education
When he's convinced that envy's ignorance
And imitation's naught but suicide;
That he must take himself for better or for worse
As his own lot; for though the universe
Is full of good, there's none of it for him
But through his toil bestowed upon himself.
The pow'r that lies in him is new in nature,
And none but he knows what that is which he
Can do, nor does he know till he has tried."
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