by William Ernest Henly
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my conquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winched nor cried aloud
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond the 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 straight the gate,
How charged with punishment the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.