Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank the Most High for my unconquerable soul,
In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud,
Under the bludgeoning of chance,
My head is pure; 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,
God is the master of my fate;
God is the master of my soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem