William Ernest Henley

(1849 - 1902 / Gloucester / England)

William Ernest Henley Poems

1. With Strawberries We Filled A Tray 12/16/2014
2. Since Those We Love And Those We Hate 2/18/2015
3. Tree, Old Tree Of The Triple Crook 4/12/2010
4. From A Window In Princes Street 4/12/2010
5. London Types: The Artist Muses At His Ease 4/12/2010
6. London Types:Life-Guardsman 4/12/2010
7. Prologue 4/12/2010
8. Scrubber 4/12/2010
9. The Ways Are Green 4/12/2010
10. While The West Is Paling 4/12/2010
11. We Flash Across The Level 4/12/2010
12. The Full Sea Rolls And Thunders 4/12/2010
13. Staff Nurse: New Style 4/12/2010
14. London Types: Sandwich-Man 4/12/2010
15. London Types: 4/12/2010
16. Enter Patient 4/12/2010
17. Ballade Of Youth And Age 4/12/2010
18. Visitor 4/12/2010
19. In Fisherrow 4/12/2010
20. The Wan Sun Westers, Faint And Slow 4/12/2010
21. London Types: Mounted Police 4/12/2010
22. London Types: Drum-Major 4/12/2010
23. Fresh From His Fastnesses 4/12/2010
24. Orientale 4/12/2010
25. Villanelle 4/12/2010
26. Where Forlorn Sunsets Flare And Fade 4/12/2010
27. Staff Nurse:Old Style 4/12/2010
28. To Me At My Fifth-Floor Window 4/12/2010
29. When The Wind Storms By With A Shout 4/12/2010
30. O, Falmouth Is A Fine Town 4/12/2010
31. London Types: 'Liza 4/12/2010
32. Easy Is The Triolet 4/12/2010
33. Gull In An Aery Morrice 4/12/2010
34. From The Break The Nightingale 4/12/2010
35. Etching 4/12/2010
36. Discharged 4/12/2010
37. Not To The Staring Day 4/12/2010
38. Trees And The Menace Of Night 4/12/2010
39. Vigil 4/12/2010
40. London Types: Beef-Eater 4/12/2010
Best Poem of William Ernest Henley


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Read the full of Invictus


The beach was crowded. Pausing now and then,
He groped and fiddled doggedly along,
His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng
The stony peevishness of sightless men.
He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again,
Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song,
So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong,
You hardly could distinguish one in ten.
He stopped at last, and sat him on the sand,

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