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by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

   With each strong thought, with every earnest longing
      For aught thou deemest needful to thy soul,
   Invisible vast forces are set thronging
      Between thee and that goal

   ’Tis only when some hidden weakness alters
      And changes thy desire, or makes it less,
   That this mysterious army ever falters
      Or stops short of success.

   Thought is a magnet; and the longed-for pleasure,
      Or boon, or aim, or object, is the steel;
   And its attainment hangs but on the measure
      Of what thy soul can feel.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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