TO CYRIACK SKINNER.
Cyriack, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot: Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or stars, throughout the year,
Or man or woman, yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In Liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask,
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
MILTON.
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.
WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.