Best 44 of William Ernest Henley quotes - MyQuotes

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William Ernest Henley
By Anonym 18 Sep

William Ernest 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. 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.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me, Black is 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.

By Anonym 15 Sep

William Ernest Henley

There are two men in Tolstoy. He is a mystic and he is also a realist. He is addicted to the practice of a pietism that for all its sincerity is nothing if not vague and sentimental; and he is the most acute and dispassionate of observers, the most profound and earnest student of character and emotion.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain.

By Anonym 15 Sep

William Ernest Henley

[T]hey stretch you on a table. Then they bid you close your eyelids, And they mask you with a napkin, And the anæsthetic reaches Hot and subtle through your being.

By Anonym 15 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Were I so tall as to reach the pole or grasp the ocean at a span, I must be measured by my soul. The mind is the standard of the man.

By Anonym 15 Sep

William Ernest Henley

This is the merit and distinction of art: to be more real than reality, to be not nature but nature's essence.

By Anonym 13 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Essayists, like poets, are born and not made, and for one worth remembering, the world is confronted with a hundred not worth reading. Your true essayist is, in a literary sense, the friend of everybody.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

It is the artist's function not to copy but to synthesise: to eliminate from that gross confusion of actuality which is his raw material whatever is accidental, idle, irrelevant, and select for perpetuation that only which is appropriate and immortal.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

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. I saw, I took, I cast you by, I bent and broke your pride... And a myriad suns have set and shone, since then upon the grave, Decreed by the King in Babylon, to her that had been his slave. The pride I trampled is now my scathe, for it tramples me again. The old remnant lasts like death for you love, yet you refrain. I break my heart on your hard unfaith, and I break my heart in vain.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Pointed criticism, if accurate, often gives the artist an inner sense of relief. The criticism that damages is that which disparages, dismisses, ridicules, or condemns.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Shakespeare and Rembrandt have in common the faculty of quickening speculation and compelling the minds of men to combat and discussion.

By Anonym 13 Sep

William Ernest Henley

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.

By Anonym 13 Sep

William Ernest Henley

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 the dawn of night began With the dusk of day was done; For that is the way of woman and man, When a hazard has made them one. Arc upon arc, from shade to shine, The World went thundering free; And what was his errand but hers and mine - The lords of him, I and she? O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one.

By Anonym 13 Sep

William Ernest Henley

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 shrink a little: My hopes are strong, my will is something weak. ...I am ready But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle: You carry Cæsar and his fortunes—steady!

By Anonym 13 Sep

William Ernest Henley

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

By Anonym 19 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Thick is the darkness-- Sunward, O, sunward! Rough is the highway-- Onward, still onward! Dawn harbors surely East of the shadows. Facing us somewhere Spread the sweet meadows. Upward and forward! Time will restore us: Light is above us, Rest is before us.

By Anonym 15 Sep

William Ernest Henley

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.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Life is worth Living Through every grain of it, From the foundations To the last edge Of the cornerstone, death.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Life is, I think, a blunder and a shame.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Shakespeare often writes so ill that you hesitate to believe he could ever write supremely well; or, if this way of putting it seem indecorous and abominable, he very often writes so well that you are loth to believe he could ever have written thus extremely ill.

By Anonym 13 Sep

William Ernest Henley

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 ever.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Life - give me life until the end, That at the very top of being, The battle-spirit shouting in my blood, Out of the reddest hell of the fight I may be snatched and flung Into the everlasting lull, The immortal, incommunicable dream.

By Anonym 13 Sep

William Ernest Henley

beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade

By Anonym 15 Sep

William Ernest Henley

The life of Dumas is not only a monument of endeavour and success, it is a sort of labyrinth as well. It abounds in pseudonyms and disguises, in sudden and unexpected appearances and retreats as unexpected and sudden, in scandals and in rumours, in mysteries and traps and ambuscades of every kind.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

By Anonym 17 Sep

William Ernest Henley

O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one.

By Anonym 13 Sep

William Ernest Henley

For it's home, dearie, home--it's home I want to be. Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree They're all growing green in the old countrie.

By Anonym 15 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Life is a smoke that curls- Curls in a flickering skein, That winds and whisks and whirls, A figment thin and vain, Into the vast inane. One end for hut and hall.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Men there have been who have done the essayist's part so well as to have earned an immortality in the doing; but we have had not many of them, and they make but a poor figure on our shelves. It is a pity that things should be thus with us, for a good essayist is the pleasantest companion imaginable.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Life - life - life! 'Tis the sole great thing This side of death, Heart on heart in the wonder of Spring!

By Anonym 15 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Who but knows How it goes! Life's a last year's Nightingale, Love's a last year's rose.

By Anonym 13 Sep

William Ernest Henley

And lo, the Hospital, gray, quiet, old, Where life and death like friendly chafferers meet.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

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.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Open your heart and take us in, Love-love and me.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

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 with the anthologies of all the world besides.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

So be my passing! My task accomplished and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gathered in the quiet west, The sundown splendid and serene, Death.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Life - life - let there be life! Better a thousand times the roaring hours When wave and wind, Like the Arch-Murderer in flight From the Avenger at his heel, Storm through the desolate fastnesses And wild waste places of the world!

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

Love, which is lust, is the Lamp in the Tomb. Love, which is lust, is the Call from the Gloom. Love, which is lust, is the Main of Desire. Love, which is lust, is the Centric Fire. So man and woman will keep their trust, Till the very Springs of the Sea run dust. Yea, each with the other will lose and win, Till the very Sides of the Grave fall in. For the strife of Love's the abysmal strife, And the word of Love is the Word of Life. And they that go with the Word unsaid, Though they seem of the living, are damned and dead.

By Anonym 14 Sep

William Ernest Henley

O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one." (Between the Dusk of a Summer Night, 13-16)