This Book is written by Arthur Osborne.

The world’s a state you are in;
It’s worth is not
Your sad or happy lot,
Whether you lose or win,
But how you shape,
How nearer grow to angel or to ape.

And when its pageant ends?
Why speculate
On the ensuing state?
On you its form depends.
What plant can grow
But from the seeds that in your life you sow?

Rigorous are its laws.
To the last split penny
Effect must follow cause,
So long you hold
Yourself a creature that its clasp can mold.

Till in yourself you know
What self you are:
Nothing to make or mar,
Nothing to change or grow,
From all set free:
The world in you, not you in it to see.