Quotes
Quotes - Henley
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.
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.
Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.
Far in the stillness a cat
Languishes loudly.
From the winter's gray despair,
From the summer's golden languor,
Death, the lover of Life,
Frees us for ever.
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.
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.
"He started hating me, cause I couldn't laugh at his jokes. I just started finding it impossible to laugh at his jokes the way I used to."
What is the voice of strange command Calling you still, as friend calls friend, With love that cannot brook delay, To rise and follow the ways that wend Over the hills and far away.
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 city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace.
The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with the sense of the triumphing night,-- Night with train of stars And her great gift of sleep.
O Death! O Change! O Time! Without you, O! the insufferable eyes Of these poor Might-Have-Beens, These fatuous, ineffectual yesterdays.
Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain.
Here is the ghost Of a summer that lived for us, Here is a promise Of summer to be.
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.
