Explore "Circumstance" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Talk not to me of souls that do conceive / Sublime ideals, but, deterred by Fate / And bound by circumstances, sit desolate, / And long for heights they never can achieve.
It is not so. That which we most desire, / With _understanding_, we at last obtain, / In part or whole. I hold there is no rain, / No deluge, that can quench a heavenly fire.
Show me thy labour, I straightway will name / The nature of thy thoughts. Who bends the bow, / And lets the arrow from the strained string go, / Strikes somewhere near the object of his aim.
We build our ships from timbers of the brain; / With products of the soul we load the hold; / Where lies the blame if they bring back no gold, / Or if they spring a leak upon the main?
There is no Fate, no Providence, no Chance, / The will is all. So be it thou art pure, / And strong of purpose, thy success is sure; / But fools and sluggards prate of circumstance.