William Ernest Henley
¶[1849-1903]
740 Margarita S or or I
¶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 cityAn influence luminous and serene,A shining peace.
¶The smoke ascendsIn a rosy-and-golden haze. The spiresShine, and are changed. In the valleyShadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,Closing his benediction,Sinks, and the darkening airThrills with a sense of the triumphing night—Night with her train of starsAnd her great gift of sleep.[1210]So be my passing!My task accomplished and the long day done,My wages taken, and in my heartSome late lark singing,Let me be gathered to the quiet west,The sundown splendid and serene,Death.
Invictus
¶OUT of the night that covers me,Black as the Pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.
¶In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.
¶Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds, 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.
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 dearAs the Song on your bugles blown,England-Round the world on your bugles blown![1211]Where shall the watchful sun,England, my England,Match the master-work you've done,England, my own?When shall he rejoice agenSuch a breed of mighty menAs 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 highBetween English earth and sky:Death is death; but we shall dieTo the Song of 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 mail'd hand keeps the keysOf such teeming destinies,You could know nor dread nor easeWere the Song on your bugles blown,England—Round the Pit on your bugles blown!