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.

We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. 
November glooms are barren beside the dusk of June. 
The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere. 
We’ll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear. 

We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. 
The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune. 
Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year. 
We’ll go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear. 

We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. 
If yet we walk together, we need not shun the moon. 
No sweet thing left to savour, no sad thing left to fear, 
We’ll go no more a-roving, but weep at home, my dear.

The rising sun had crowned the hills,
            And added beauty to the plain;
O grand and wondrous spectacle!
            That only nature could explain.

I stood within a leafy grove,
            And gazed around in blissful awe;
The sky appeared one mass of blue,
            That seemed to spread from sea to shore.

Far as the human eye could see,
            Were stretched the fields of waving corn.
Soft on my ear the warbling birds
            Were heralding the birth of morn.

While here and there a cottage quaint
            Seemed to repose in quiet ease
Amid the trees, whose leaflets waved
            And fluttered in the passing breeze.

O morning hour! so dear thy joy,
            And how I longed for thee to last;
But e’en thy fading into day
            Brought me an echo of the past.

 ‘Twas this,—how fair my life began;
            How pleasant was its hour of dawn;
But, merging into sorrow’s day,
            Then beauty faded with the morn.