William Ernest Henley

Madam Life's a Piece in Bloom

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. You shall see her as a friend, You shall bilk him once

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

The beach was crowded. Pausing now and then, He groped and fiddled doggedly along, His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng The stony peevishness of sightless men. He seemed scarce older than his

O Gather Me the Rose

O gather me the rose, the rose, While yet in flower we find it, For summer smiles, but summer goes, And winter waits behind it. For with the dream foregone, foregone, The deed foreborn

Double Ballade on the Nothingness of Things

The big teetotum twirls, And epochs wax and wane As chance subsides or swirls; But of the loss and gain The sum is always plain. Read on the mighty pall, The weed of funeral

Between the Dusk of a Summer Night

Between the dusk of a summer night And the dawn of a summer day, We caught at a mood as it passed in flight, And we bade it stoop and stay. And what with

Villon's Straight Tip to All Cross Coves

“Tout aux tavernes et aux filles.” Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack? Or fake the broads? or fig a nag? Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?

Barmaid

Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise, Being plain Elizabeth, e’en let it pass, And own that, if her aspirates take their ease, She ever makes a point, in washing glass, Handling

The Rain and the Wind

The rain and the wind, the wind and the rain They are with us like a disease: They worry the heart, they work the brain, As they shoulder and clutch at the shrieking pane,

There's a Regret

There’s a regret So grinding, so immitigably sad, Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad. … Do you not know it yet? For deeds undone Rnakle and snarl and hunger for their due, Till there

Ballade of Dead Actors

Where are the passions they essayed, And where the tears they made to flow? Where the wild humours they portrayed For laughing worlds to see and know? Othello’s wrath and Juliet’s woe? Sir Peter’s

If I Were King

If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies of time and chance are seldom clear, We would inform them all with bland blue weather. Delight alone would need to shed a

London Voluntaries IV: Out of the Poisonous East

Out of the poisonous East, Over a continent of blight, Like a maleficent Influence released From the most squalid cellerage of hell, The Wind-Fiend, the abominable The Hangman Wind that tortures temper and light

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

I am the Reaper

I am the Reaper. All things with heedful hook Silent I gather. Pale roses touched with the spring, Tall corn in summer, Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms- Reaping, still reaping- All

Margaritae Sorori

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