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.

 

"Invictus"  
William Ernest Henley

A Poet's Epitaph

 

Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies,
The Poet of the Poor.
His books were rivers, woods and skies,
The meadow and the moor,
His teachers were the torn hearts’ wail,
The tyrant, and the slave,
The street, the factory, the jail,
The palace — and the grave!
The meanest thing, earth’s feeblest worm,
He fear’d to scorn or hate;
And honour’d in a peasant’s form
The equal of the great.

But if he loved the rich who make
The poor man’s little more,
Ill could he praise the rich who take
From plunder’d labour’s store.
A hand to do, a head to plan,
A heart to feel and dare —
Tell man’s worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.

 

"A Poet's Epitaph"  
Ebenezer Elliott

A Happy Life

 

    How happy is he born and taught
      That serveth not another's will;
    Whose armour is his honest thought,
      And simple truth his utmost skill!

    Whose passions not his master's are,
      Whose soul is still prepared for death,
    Not tied unto the world with care
      Of public fame, or private breath.

 

"A Happy Life"  
Henry Wotton

Mist

 

Low-anchored cloud
Newfoundlan air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields!

 

"Mist"  
Henry David Thoreau

The Thread of Truth

 

TRUTH is a golden thread, seen here and there
In small bright specks upon the visible side
Of our strange being's parti-coloured web.
How rich the universe! 'Tis a vein of ore
Emerging now and then on Earth's rude breast,
But flowing full below. Like islands set
At distant intervals on Ocean's face,
We see it on our course; but in the depths
The mystic colonnade unbroken keeps
Its faithful way, invisible but sure.
Oh, if it be so, wherefore do we men
Pass by so many marks, so little heeding?

 

"The Thread of Truth"  
Arthur Hugh Clough

Home

There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life!
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of love and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.

Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man? - a patriot? - look around;
Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!

"Home"
James Montgomery

Lead, Kindly Light

 

Lead, kindly light, amid th' encircling gloom,
     Lead Thou me on;
The night is dark and I am far from home;
     Lead Thou me on;
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
     Should lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
     Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy Power hast blest me, sure it still
     Will lead me on;
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
     The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

 

"Lead, Kindly Light"  
John Henry Newman

Leisure and Love

 

Sooth 'twere a pleasant life to lead,
     With nothing in the world to do,
But just to blow a shepherd's reed
     The silent seasons through,
And just to drive a flock to feed—
     Sheep, quiet, fond, and few!

Pleasant to breathe beside a brook,
     And count the bubbles - love-worlds - there;
To muse upon some minstrel's book,
     Or watch the haunted air;
To slumber in some leafy nook-
     Or, idle anywhere.

And then a draught of nature's wine,
     A meal of summer's daintiest fruit;
To take the air with forms divine;
     Clouds, silvery, cool, and mute;
Descending, if the night be fine,
     In a star-parachute.

Give me to live with love alone,
     And let the world go dine and dress;
For love hath lowly haunts - a stone
     Holds something meant to bless.
If life's a flower, I choose my own -
     'Tis "Love in Idleness!"

 

"Leisure and Love"  
Samuel Laman Blanchard

Inscription on Raleigh's Bible

 

Even such is time that takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days!
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.

 

"Inscription on Raleigh's Bible"  
Walter Raleigh

'Whiles in the early Winter eve'

 

Whiles in the early Winter eve

We pass amid the gathering night

Some homestead that we had to leave

Years past; and see its candles bright

Shine in the room beside the door

Where we were merry years agone

But now must never enter more,

As still the dark road drives us on.

E'en so the world of men may turn

At even of some hurried day

And see the ancient glimmer burn

Across the waste that hath no way;

Then with that faint light in its eyes

A while I bid it linger near

And nurse in wavering memories

The bitter-sweet of days that were.

 

" 'Whiles in the early Winter eve' "  
William Morris  

Found at the beginning of "The House of the Wolfings" by William Morris.

Life in Death

 

     He should have followed who goes forth before us,
       Last born of us in life, in death first-born:
       The last to lift up eyes against the morn,
     The first to see the sunset. Life, that bore us
     Perchance for death to comfort and restore us,
       Of him hath left us here awhile forlorn,
       For him is as a garment overworn,
     And time and change, with suns and stars in chorus,
     Silent. But if, beyond all change or time,
     A law more just, more equal, more sublime
       Than sways the surge of life's loud sterile sea
     Sways that still world whose peace environs him,
     Where death lies dead as night when stars wax dim,
       Above all thought or hope of ours is he.

 

"Life in Death"  
Algernon Charles Swinburne

Richard Cory

 

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

 

"Richard Cory"  
Edwin Arlington Robinson

The New Colossus

 

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

 

"The New Colossus"  
    Emma Lazarus

The Light of Other Days

 

   Oft in the stilly night
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Fond Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me:
        The smiles, the tears
        Of boyhood's years,
      The words of love then spoken;
        The eyes that shone,
        Now dimmed and gone,
      The cheerful hearts now broken!
    Thus in the stilly night
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Sad Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me.

    When I remember all
      The friends so link'd together
    I've seen around me fall
      Like leaves in wintry weather,
        I feel like one
        Who treads alone
      Some banquet-hall deserted,
        Whose lights are fled,
        Whose garlands dead,
      And all but he departed!
    Thus in the stilly night
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Sad Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me.

 

"The Light of Other Days"  
Thomas Moore

A Wish

 

   Mine be a cot beside the hill;
      A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
    A willowy brook that turns a mill
      With many a fall shall linger near.

    The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
      Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
    Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
      And share my meal, a welcome guest.

    Around my ivied porch shall spring
      Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
    And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
      In russet gown and apron blue.

    The village church among the trees,
      Where first our marriage-vows were given,
    With merry peals shall swell the breeze
      And point with taper spire to Heaven.

 

"A Wish"  
Samuel Rogers

Oh come to me now

 

Oh! come to me now, for my sorrows are past,
And the cloud on my heart is dissolv'd at last;
Spirit of Poesy, come from above,
Come, on the wings of nature and love!

Come, while the yellow light streams thro' the pane,
And the air is fresh with the morning rain,
And the wind is up with its sweet wild voice,
Like a song of sorrow that bids us rejoice.

Come, mid fancies gathering fast,
'Mid thoughts of the present, and thoughts of the past,
Oh! come to me now! 't is thy chosen hour,
And the spirits of evil no longer have power!

 

"Oh come to me now" 

The Death of Procris

 

Poor jealous Procris in the Cretan wood,
     Slain by the very hand of love at last!
This way was best; the cordial bath of blood,
               The long love-sickness past.

The brown fauns gather round with piteous cries;
     They mourn her beauty, know not of her woe;
They find no Eos graven on those eyes
               Whence tears no longer flow.

Her griefs, her frailties from the flowery turf
     Exhaled, are like the dews of yesterday;
The grim ship hurrying through the Phocian surf,
               The exile on her way,

The cruel goddess, and the twofold test,
     The breaking heart of hate, the poisoned hours, —
All these have faded out in utter rest
               Among the Cretan flowers.

Ah! wrap her body in its fluttering lawns!
     'Tis Cephalus' own shaft that hath made cease
The passion of her breast; hush, foolish fauns,
               Hush! for her end was peace.

 

"The Death of Procris"
Edmund William Gosse