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.

William Ernest Henley

O Gather Me the Rose

O GATHER me the rose, the rose,

While yet in flower we find it,

For summer smiles, but summer goes,

And winter waits behind it.

For with the dream foregone, foregone,

The deed foreborn forever,

The worm Regret will canker on,

And time will turn him never.

So were it well to love, my love,

And cheat of any laughter

The fate beneath us, and above,

The dark before and after.

The myrtle and the rose, the rose,

The sunshine and the swallow,

The dream that comes, the wish that goes

The memories that follow!

William Ernest Henley

What Is to Come

WHAT is to come we know not. But we know

That what has been was good--was good to show,

Better to hide, and best of all to bear.

We are the masters of the days that were;

We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered...even so.

Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow?

Life was our friend? Now, if it be our foe--

Dear, though it spoil and break us! --need we care

What is to come?

Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow,

Or the gold weather round us mellow slow;

We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare

And we can conquer, though we may not share

In the rich quiet of the afterglow

What is to come.

William Ernest Henley

Since Those We Love and Those We Hate

SINCE those we love and those we hate,

With all things mean and all things great,

Pass in a desperate disarray

Over the hills and far away:

It must be, Dear, that, late or soon,

Out of the ken of the watching moon,

We shall abscond with yesterday

Over the hills and far away.

What does it matter? As I deem,

We shall but follow as brave a dream

As ever smiled a wanton May

Over the hills and far away.

We shall remember, and, in pride,

Fare forth, fulfilled and satisfied,

Into the land of Ever-and-Aye,

Over the hills and far away.

William Ernest Henley

Over the Hills and Far Away

WHERE forlorn sunsets flare and fade

On desolate sea and lonely sand,

Out of the silence and the shade

What is the voice of strange command

Calling you still, as friend calls friend

With love that cannot brook delay,

To rise and follow the ways that wend

Over the hills and far away?

Hark in the city, street on street

A roaring reach of death and life,

Of vortices that clash and fleet

And ruin in appointed strife,

Hark to it calling, calling clear,

Calling until you cannot stay

From dearer things than your own most dear

Over the hills and far away.

Out of the sound of the ebb-and-flow,

Out of the sight of lamp and star,

It calls you where the good winds blow,

And the unchanging meadows are;

From faded hopes and hopes agleam,

It calls you, calls you night and day

Beyond the dark into the dream

Over the hills and far away.

William Ernest Henley

To W.A.

OR ever the knightly years were gone

With the old world to the grave,

I was a King in Babylon

And you were a Christian Slave.

I saw, I took, I cast you by,

I bent and broke your pride.

You loved me well, or I heard them lie,

But your longing was denied.

Surely I knew that by and by

You cursed your gods and died.

And a myriad suns have set and shone

Since then upon the grave

Decreed by the King of Babylon,

To her that had been his Slave.

The pride I trampled is now my scathe,

For it tramples me again.

The old resentment lasts like death,

For you love, yet you refrain.

I break my heart on your hard unfaith,

And I break my heart in vain.

Yet not for an hour do I wish undone

The deed beyond the grave,

When I was a King in Babylon

And you were a Virgin Slave.

William Ernest Henley

I.M.: Margaritae Sorori

A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies;

And from the west,

Where the sun, his day's work ended,

Lingers as in content,

There falls on the old, gray city

An influence luminous and serene,

A shining peace.

The smoke ascends in a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires

Shine, and are changed. In the valley,

Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,

Closing his benediction,

Sinks, and the darkening air

Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--

Night with her train of stars

And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!

My task accomplished and the long day done,

My wages taken, and in my heart

Some late lark singing,

Let me be gathered to the quiet west,

The sundown splendid and serene,

Death.

William Ernest Henley

England, My England

WHAT have I done for you,

England, my England?

What is there I would not do,

England, my own?

With your glorious eyes austere,

As the Lord were walking near,

Whispering terrible things and dear

As the Song on your bugles blown,

         England--

Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,

England, my England,

Match the masterwork you've done

England, my own?

When shall he rejoice again

Such a breed of mighty men

As come forward, one to ten,

To the Song on your bugles blown,

         England--

Down the years on your bugles blown!

Ever the faith endures,

England, my England--

"Take and break us; we are yours,

England, my own!

Life is good, and joy runs high

Between English earth and sky.

Death is death; but we shall die

To the Song on your bugles blown,

         England--

To the stars on your bugles blown!"

They call you proud and hard,

England, my England--

You with worlds to watch and ward,

England, my own!

You whose mailed hand keeps the keys

Of such teeming destinies,

You could not know or dread nor ease

Were the Song on your bugle blown,

         England--

Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might,

England, my England,

Is the fierce old Sea's delight,

England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,

Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,

There's the menace of the Word

In the Song on your bugles blown,

         England--

Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

William Ernest Henley

Ballade of Dead Actors

WHERE are the passions they essayed,

And where the tears they made to flow?

Where the wild humours they portrayed

For laughing worlds to see and know?

Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?

Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall?

And Millamant and Romeo?

Into the night go one and all.

Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?

The plumes, the armours--friend or foe?

The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,

The mantles glittering to and fro?

The pomp, the pride, the royal show?

The cries of war and festival?

The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?

Into the night go one and all.

The curtain falls, the play is played:

The Beggar packs beside the Beau;

The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;

The Thunder huddles with the Snow.

Where are the revellers high and low?

The clashing swords? The lover's call?

The dancers gleaming row on row?

Into the night go one and all.

      Envoy

Prince, in one common overthrow

The Hero tumbles with the Thrall:

As dust that drives, as straws that blow,

Into the night go one and all.

William Ernest Henley

While the West is Paling

WHILE the west is paling

Starshine is begun.

While the dusk is failing

Glimmers up the sun.

So, till darkness cover

Life's retreating gleam,

Lover follows lover,

Dream succeeds to dream.

Stoop to my endeavour,

O my love, and be

Only and for ever

Sun and stars to me.

William Ernest Henley

Madam Life's a Piece in Bloom

MADAM Life's a piece in bloom

Death goes dogging everywhere:

She's the tenant of the room,

He's the ruffian on the stair.

You shall see her as a friend,

You shall bilk him once and twice;

But he'll trap you in the end,

And he'll stick you for her price.

With his kneebones at your chest,

And his knuckles in your throat,

You would reason--plead--protest!

Clutching at her petticoat;

But she's heard it all before,

Well she knows you've had your fun,

Gingerly she gains the door,

And your little job is done.

William Ernest Henley

A Dainty Thing's the Villanelle

A DAINTY thing's the Villanelle,

  Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme,

It serves its purpose passing well.

A double-clappered silver bell

  That must be made to clink in chime,

A dainty thing's the Villanelle;

And if you wish to flute a spell,

  Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime,

It serves its purpose passing well.

You must not ask of it the swell

  Of organs grandiose and sublime--

A dainty thing's the Villanelle;

And, filled with sweetness, as a shell

  Is filled with sound, and launched in time,

It serves its purpose passing well.

Still fair to see and good to smell

  As in the quaintness of its prime,

A dainty thing's the Villanelle,

It serves its purpose passing well.

William Ernest Henley

Easy is the Triolet

EASY is the Triolet,

  If you really learn to make it!

Once a neat refrain you get,

Easy is the Triolet.

As you see!--I pay my debt

  With another rhyme. Deuce take it,

Easy is the Triolet,

  If you really learn to make it!

William Ernest Henley