William Ernest Henley

(1849 - 1902 / Gloucester / England)

William Ernest Henley Poems

121. Staff Nurse: New Style 4/12/2010
122. Staff Nurse:Old Style 4/12/2010
123. Suicide 4/12/2010
124. The Chief 4/12/2010
125. The Full Sea Rolls And Thunders 4/12/2010
126. The Gods Are Dead 4/12/2010
127. The Nightingale Has A Lyre Of Gold 4/12/2010
128. The Past Was Goodly Once 4/12/2010
129. The Rain And The Wind 1/3/2003
130. The Sands Are Alive With Sunshine 4/12/2010
131. The Sea Is Full Of Wandering Foam 4/12/2010
132. The Shadow Of Dawn 4/12/2010
133. The Skies Are Strown With Stars 4/12/2010
134. The Song Of The Sword--To Rudyard Kipling 4/12/2010
135. The Spirit Of Wine 4/12/2010
136. The Spring, My Dear 4/12/2010
137. The Surges Gushed And Sounded 4/12/2010
138. The Wan Sun Westers, Faint And Slow 4/12/2010
139. The Ways Are Green 4/12/2010
140. The Ways Of Death Are Soothing And Serene 4/12/2010
141. The West A Glimmering Lake Of Light 4/12/2010
142. There Is A Wheel Inside My Head 4/12/2010
143. There's A Regret 1/3/2003
144. Thick Is The Darkness 4/12/2010
145. Time And The Earth 4/12/2010
146. To Me At My Fifth-Floor Window 4/12/2010
147. To My Mother 4/12/2010
148. To My Wife 4/12/2010
149. To: W A 4/12/2010
150. Tree, Old Tree Of The Triple Crook 4/12/2010
151. Trees And The Menace Of Night 4/12/2010
152. Unconquerable 4/12/2010
153. Under A Stagnant Sky 4/12/2010
154. Vigil 4/12/2010
155. Villanelle 4/12/2010
156. Villon's Straight Tip To All Cross Coves 1/1/2004
157. Visitor 4/12/2010
158. Waiting 4/12/2010
159. We Are The Choice Of The Will 4/12/2010
160. We Flash Across The Level 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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