What happens to a dream deferred?

       Does it dry up

       like a raisin in the sun?

       Or fester like a sore—

       And then run?

       Does it stink like rotten meat?

       Or crust and sugar over—

       like a syrupy sweet?

       Maybe it just sags

       like a heavy load.

       Or does it explode?

Out of the night that covers me,   
   Black as the Pit from pole to pole,   
I thank whatever gods may be   
   For my unconquerable soul.   

In the fell clutch of circumstance 
   I have not winced nor cried aloud.   
Under the bludgeonings of chance   
   My head is bloody, but unbowed.   

Beyond this place of wrath and tears   
   Looms but the Horror of the shade, 
And yet the menace of the years   
   Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.   

It matters not how strait the gate,   
   How charged with punishments the scroll,   
I am the master of my fate:
   I am the captain of my soul.

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,

     But he with a chuckle replied

That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one

     Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

     On his face. If he worried he hid it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

     That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;

     At least no one ever has done it”;

But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,

     And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

     Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

     That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

     There are thousands to prophesy failure;

There are thousands to point out to you one by one,

     The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

     Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing

     That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.