Bloody, But Unbowed
I’d like to dredge up this ancient piece of literature. You may be familiar with it.
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.
The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson
I was thinking about something and that led to something else and before I knew it, I was thinking about this poem. And there I was. Thinking about this poem.
So you should think about it too.
That’s all. Go think now.
