William Ernest Henley

We are the Choice of the Will: God, when He gave the word That called us into line, set in our hand a sword;Set us a sword to wield none else could lift and draw, And bade us forth to the sound of the trumpet of the Law.

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.

There let it rest. It has fought and won, And is still the best That either has done. Each as he stands The work of its hands,

And, forgive and forget Or canker and fret, We can be no more As we were before. When it ends it ends With friends.

Friends.. old friends... One sees how it ends. A woman looks Or a man tells lies, And the pleasant brooks And the quiet skies,

As dust that drives, as straws that blow, Into the night go one and all.

I captain an army Of shining and generous dreams.

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.

So be my passing! My task accomplish'd and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gather'd to the quiet west, The sundown splendid and serene,

Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.

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.

Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.

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.

Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck, Most vain, most generous, sternly critical, Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist: A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck, Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all, And something of the Shorter-Catechist.

Bland as a Jesuit, sober as a hymn.

From the winter's gray despair, From the summer’s golden languor, Death, the lover of Life, Frees us for ever.

Far in the stillness a cat Languishes loudly. A cinder Falls, and the shadows Lurch to the leap of the flame.

Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.

Hark how the Trumpet, The mistress of mistresses, Calls, silver-throated And stern, where the tables Are spread, and the work Of the Lord is in hand!

Ho! then, the splendour And sheen of my ministry, Clothing the earth With a livery of lightnings! Ho! then, the music Of battles in onset