William Ernest Henley
William Ernest Henley (August 23, 1849 - July 11, 1903) was a British poet, critic and editor.
Henley was born in Gloucester and educated at the Crypt Grammar School. The school was a poor relation of the Cathedral School, and Henley indicated its shortcomings in his article (Pall Mall Magazine, Nov. 1900) on T. E. Brown the poet, who was headmaster there for a brief period. Brown's appointment was a stroke of luck for Henley, for whom it represented a first acquaintance with a man of genius. "He was singularly kind to me at a moment when I needed kindness even more than I needed encouragement." Brown did him the essential service of lending him books. Henley was no ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
William Ernest Henley Poems
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.
A Love By The Sea
Out of the starless night that covers me, (O tribulation of the wind that rolls!) Black as the cloud of some tremendous spell,
I am the Reaper
I am the Reaper. All things with heedful hook Silent I gather. Pale roses touched with the spring,
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.
A child, Curious and innocent, Slips from his Nurse, and rejoicing Loses himself in the Fair.
Between the Dusk of a Summer Night
Between the dusk of a summer night And the dawn of a summer day, We caught at a mood as it passed in flight, And we bade it stoop and stay.
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.
The Rain and the Wind
The rain and the wind, the wind and the rain -- They are with us like a disease: They worry the heart, they work the brain, As they shoulder and clutch at the shrieking pane,
It Came With The Threat Of A Waning Moon
It came with the threat of a waning moon And the wail of an ebbing tide, But many a woman has lived for less, And many a man has died;
If I Were King
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies of time and chance are seldom clear, We would inform them all with bland blue weather. Delight alone would need to shed a tear,
There's a Regret
There's a regret So grinding, so immitigably sad, Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad. ... Do you not know it yet?
A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies: And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content,
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?
A Desolate Shore
A desolate shore, The sinister seduction of the Moon, The menace of the irreclaimable Sea.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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.