O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy… — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
Between the dusk of a summer night And the dawn of a summer day, We caught at a mood as it passed… — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
“O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy… — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
“It matters not how strait the gate. How charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate. I am the captain… — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
Life is a smoke that curls- Curls in a flickering skein, That winds and whisks and whirls, A figment thin and vain, Into the… — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
Into the winter's gray delight, Into the summer's golden dream, Holy and high and impartial, Death, the mother of Life, Mingles all men for… — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
Behold me waiting—waiting for the knife.... The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform, The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.... [F]ace to face with chance, I… — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
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. — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
Shakespeare and Rembrandt have in common the faculty of quickening speculation and compelling the minds of men to combat and discussion. — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
Who but knows How it goes! Life's a last year's Nightingale, Love's a last year's rose. — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
Or ever the knightly years were gone, with the old world to the grave, I was a King in Babylon and you were a… — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
And lo, the Hospital, gray, quiet, old, Where life and death like friendly chafferers meet. — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
Now, to read poetry at all is to have an ideal anthology of one's own, and in that possession to be incapable of content… — William Ernest Henley Copy Share Image
