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.

As from the house your mother sees

You playing round the garden trees,

So you may see, if you will look

Through the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far away,

And in another garden, play.

But do not think you can at all,

By knocking on the window, call

That child to hear you. He intent

Is all on his play-business bent.

He does not hear; he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

And it is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there.