Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I think whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clucth of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeoning 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.

—W.E. Henley

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