The fatuous glamour of the thing called Chance

Doth lead men to the Gates of Grief

More often than to Happiness.

And they who wait

For Chance, or Fate, or Moment Opportune,

Shall wait in vain.

There is no Chance, or Fate, or Opportunity,

Save what we earn and make.

The sensuous pleasures, and the gleam of gold,

The dregs of misery, or immortal Fame,

Are but the creatures of our Will;

For what we will to be, we are;

Whether for good or ill.

And when we will, we needs must pay,

Even unto the end.

And they who will for good

Shall reap the good, the others ill.

The future lies before;

Each, for himself, must choose.