William Ernest Henley

(1849 - 1902 / Gloucester / England)

William Ernest Henley Poems

41. Double Ballade On The Nothingness Of Things 1/3/2003
42. Easy Is The Triolet 4/12/2010
43. England, My England 1/4/2003
44. Enter Patient 4/12/2010
45. Envoy--To Charles Baxter 4/12/2010
46. Epilogue 4/12/2010
47. Etching 4/12/2010
48. Fill A Glass With Golden Wine 4/12/2010
49. Fresh From His Fastnesses 4/12/2010
50. Friends.... Old Friends...... 4/12/2010
51. From A Window In Princes Street 4/12/2010
52. From The Break The Nightingale 4/12/2010
53. Grave 4/12/2010
54. Gull In An Aery Morrice 4/12/2010
55. Here They Trysted, And Here They Strayed 4/12/2010
56. House-Surgeon 4/12/2010
57. I Am The Reaper 1/1/2004
58. I Gave My Heart To A Woman 4/12/2010
59. I. M. R. T. Hamilton Bruce (1846-1899) 1/1/2004
60. If I Were King 1/3/2003
61. If It Should Come To Be 4/12/2010
62. In Fisherrow 4/12/2010
63. In Rotten Row 4/12/2010
64. In The Dials 4/12/2010
65. In The Placid Summer Midnight 4/12/2010
66. In The Waste Hour 4/12/2010
67. In The Year That's Come And Gone 4/12/2010
68. Interior 4/12/2010
69. Interlude 4/12/2010
70. Invictus 1/3/2003
71. It Came With The Threat Of A Waning Moon 4/12/2010
72. Kate-A-Whimsies, John-A-Dream 4/12/2010
73. Lady Probationer 4/12/2010
74. Largo E Mesto 4/12/2010
75. Last Post 4/12/2010
76. Let Us Be Drunk 4/12/2010
77. Life In Her Creaking Shoes 4/12/2010
78. Life Is Bitter 4/12/2010
79. London Types: 4/12/2010
80. London Types: Barmaid 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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