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There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent or hinder or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;
All things give way before it, soon or late.
   What obstacle can stay the mighty force
   Of the sea-seeking river in its course,
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?

Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.
Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate
   Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,
   Whose slightest action or inaction serve.
The one great aim.
         Why, even Death stands still,
And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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