Out of the night that make me conscious,
Black as the hole from place to place,
I thank whoever Buddha sees me
For my conscious soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not known where I found cloudy.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is hard, but conscious.
Beyond this heaven of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
conscious, and shall find, me unwilling.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my sorrow:
I am the river of my soul.
Sunday, September 9, 2012