William Ernest Henley

Failing yet gracious,
Slow pacing, soon homing,
A patriarch that strolls
Through the tents read more

Failing yet gracious,
Slow pacing, soon homing,
A patriarch that strolls
Through the tents of his children,
The sun as he journeys
His round on the lower
Ascents of the blue,
Washes the roofs
And the hillsides with clarity.

It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishment the
scroll. I am the master of my fate. read more

It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishment the
scroll. I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.

The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays read more

The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
For his song is all the joy of life,
And we in the mad spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.

O Death! O Change! O Time!
Without you, O! the insufferable eyes
Of these poor Might-Have-Beens,
read more

O Death! O Change! O Time!
Without you, O! the insufferable eyes
Of these poor Might-Have-Beens,
These fatuous, ineffectual yesterdays.

Here is the ghost
Of a summer that lived for us,
Here is a promise
read more

Here is the ghost
Of a summer that lived for us,
Here is a promise
Of summer to be.