William Ernest Henley

(1849 - 1902 / Gloucester / England)

William Ernest Henley Poems

41. Staff Nurse: New Style 4/12/2010
42. Pastoral 4/12/2010
43. To: W A 4/12/2010
44. What Have I Done For You 4/12/2010
45. Space And Dread And The Dark 4/12/2010
46. Before 4/12/2010
47. Visitor 4/12/2010
48. London Types: Bluecoat Boy 4/12/2010
49. Life In Her Creaking Shoes 4/12/2010
50. O, Time And Change, They Range And Range 4/12/2010
51. The Spring, My Dear 4/12/2010
52. The Sands Are Alive With Sunshine 4/12/2010
53. London Types: Bus Driver 4/12/2010
54. There Is A Wheel Inside My Head 4/12/2010
55. To My Wife 4/12/2010
56. The Chief 4/12/2010
57. Scherzando 4/12/2010
58. Tree, Old Tree Of The Triple Crook 4/12/2010
59. Your Heart Has Trembled To My Tongue 4/12/2010
60. Here They Trysted, And Here They Strayed 4/12/2010
61. London Types: News Boy 4/12/2010
62. The Surges Gushed And Sounded 4/12/2010
63. When You Wake In Your Crib 4/12/2010
64. When The Wind Storms By With A Shout 4/12/2010
65. Midsummer Midnight Skies 4/12/2010
66. London Types: Flower-Girl 4/12/2010
67. The Shadow Of Dawn 4/12/2010
68. In The Waste Hour 4/12/2010
69. We Are The Choice Of The Will 4/12/2010
70. Nocturn 4/12/2010
71. Envoy--To Charles Baxter 4/12/2010
72. One With The Ruined Sunset 4/12/2010
73. Ballade Of Youth And Age 4/12/2010
74. Grave 4/12/2010
75. Why, My Heart, Do We Love Her So? 4/12/2010
76. London Types: Barmaid 4/12/2010
77. Some Starlit Garden Grey With Dew 4/12/2010
78. The Gods Are Dead 4/12/2010
79. In The Placid Summer Midnight 4/12/2010
80. Children: Private Ward 4/12/2010
Best Poem of William Ernest Henley

Invictus

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

Croquis

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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