William Ernest Henley

(1849 - 1902 / Gloucester / England)

William Ernest Henley Poems

1. Your Heart Has Trembled To My Tongue 4/12/2010
2. You Played And Sang A Snatch Of Song 4/12/2010
3. With Strawberries We Filled A Tray 12/16/2014
4. Why, My Heart, Do We Love Her So? 4/12/2010
5. While The West Is Paling 4/12/2010
6. Where Forlorn Sunsets Flare And Fade 4/12/2010
7. When You Wake In Your Crib 4/12/2010
8. When You Are Old 4/12/2010
9. When The Wind Storms By With A Shout 4/12/2010
10. What Is To Come 4/12/2010
11. What Have I Done For You 4/12/2010
12. We'Ll Go No More A-Roving 4/12/2010
13. We Shall Surely Die 4/12/2010
14. We Flash Across The Level 4/12/2010
15. We Are The Choice Of The Will 4/12/2010
16. Waiting 4/12/2010
17. Visitor 4/12/2010
18. Villon's Straight Tip To All Cross Coves 1/1/2004
19. Villanelle 4/12/2010
20. Vigil 4/12/2010
21. Under A Stagnant Sky 4/12/2010
22. Unconquerable 4/12/2010
23. Trees And The Menace Of Night 4/12/2010
24. Tree, Old Tree Of The Triple Crook 4/12/2010
25. To: W A 4/12/2010
26. To My Wife 4/12/2010
27. To My Mother 4/12/2010
28. To Me At My Fifth-Floor Window 4/12/2010
29. Time And The Earth 4/12/2010
30. Thick Is The Darkness 4/12/2010
31. There's A Regret 1/3/2003
32. There Is A Wheel Inside My Head 4/12/2010
33. The West A Glimmering Lake Of Light 4/12/2010
34. The Ways Of Death Are Soothing And Serene 4/12/2010
35. The Ways Are Green 4/12/2010
36. The Wan Sun Westers, Faint And Slow 4/12/2010
37. The Surges Gushed And Sounded 4/12/2010
38. The Spring, My Dear 4/12/2010
39. The Spirit Of Wine 4/12/2010
40. The Song Of The Sword--To Rudyard Kipling 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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