William Ernest Henley
William Ernest Henley Poems
|161.||We Shall Surely Die||4/12/2010|
|162.||We'Ll Go No More A-Roving||4/12/2010|
|163.||What Have I Done For You||4/12/2010|
|164.||What Is To Come||4/12/2010|
|165.||When The Wind Storms By With A Shout||4/12/2010|
|166.||When You Are Old||4/12/2010|
|167.||When You Wake In Your Crib||4/12/2010|
|168.||Where Forlorn Sunsets Flare And Fade||4/12/2010|
|169.||While The West Is Paling||4/12/2010|
|170.||Why, My Heart, Do We Love Her So?||4/12/2010|
|171.||With Strawberries We Filled A Tray||12/16/2014|
|172.||You Played And Sang A Snatch Of Song||4/12/2010|
|173.||Your Heart Has Trembled To My Tongue||4/12/2010|
Comments about 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.
Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise,
Being plain Elizabeth, e'en let it pass,
And own that, if her aspirates take their ease,
She ever makes a point, in washing glass,
Handling the engine, turning taps for tots,
And countering change, and scorning what men say,
Of posing as a dove among the pots,
Nor often gives her dignity away.
Her head's a work of art, and, if her eyes