Neme AV OUT OF THE NIGHT THAT COVERS ME, BLACK AS THE PIT FROM FOLE TO POLE, I THANK WHATEVER GODS MAY BE FOR MY UNCONQUERABLE SOUL. IN THE FELL CUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE I HAVE NOT WINCED NOR CRIED ALOUD. UNDER THE BLUDGEONINGS OF CHANCE MY HEAD IS BLOOoY, 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, UNARAID. Oise Myre Drstr. Ibis conalt nemivemi-no IT MATTERS NOT How STRAIT THE GATE. HOW CHAREED WITH PUNISHMENTS THE SCROLL. I AM THE MASTER OF MY FATE AM THE CAPTAIN OF MY SOUL

invictus william ernest henley nemi lise myhre goth girl comic resilience inner strength perseverance

Origin Entry: Poetry

Notes:

Because I'm not sure how clear the text will be on a smaller screen, I'll just write up the whole poem here as well:

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.

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Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O what panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa we bickering brattle! 1 wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi murd'ring pattle! That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald. To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! sae hasty, But Mousie, thou are In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! no thy-lane, I'm truly sorry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee otartle, At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! 1 doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request r'u get a blessin wi the lave, An', never miss't! Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! 1 backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' 1 canna 1 guess an' fear! se Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane O foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast An weary Winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. Sookiesooker@deviantart.com

A Bottle And Friend There's nane that's blest of human kind, But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c. Here's a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o' care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man: Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man. Robert Burns

ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS POEM BY ROBERT BURNS Fair fá your honest, sonsie face, Great Chieftain ó the Puddin-race! Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Aboon them á ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang 's m y arm. Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner Looks down wi'sneering, scornfú view On sic a dinner? The groaning trencher there ye fil! Your hurdies like a distant hill Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time ó need, While thró your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a withed rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thró bluidy flood or field to dash, O how unfit! His knife see Rustic-labour dight, Ań cut ye up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, Hé ll make it whissle; An legs, an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps ó thrissle. And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Ye Powrs wha mak mankind your care, Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till á their weel-swall'd kytes belyve And dish them out their bill ó fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; wish her gratefú prayer Are bent like drums; But, if ye wish her gratefú pra yer Gie her a Haggis! Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums.

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Percy Bysshe Shelley: Ozymandias

ZEN PENCILS presents OZYMANDIAS A poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley I met a traveller from an antique land who said... Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand... ...half sunk, a shattered visage lies. Whose frown, and wrinkled lip... .. and sneer of cold command... .. tell that its sculptor well those passions read. Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things. The hand that mocked them... ... and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear ... MY NAME IS OZYMANDIAS. KING OF KINGS. LOOK ON MY WORKS, YE MIGHTY... ...AND DESPAIR! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay... ...of that colossal wreck... ASC ... boundless and bare... ... the lone and level sands stretch far away. Percy Bysshe Shelley zen pencils.com ARTWORK O GAVIN AUNG THAN 2014

Rudyard Kipling: If-

If If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, 2 Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream-and not make dreams your master; If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And-which is more–you'll be a Man, my son! FAMOUS AUTHOR SAYS.

Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. And sorry I could not travel both... ... and be one traveler, long I stood AIR BRAZIL DESTINATION: RIO JE JANEIRO VICTORIA UNIVERSITY And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth. STUDENT ENROLMENT DEPARTURES PIGN Then took the other, as just as fair And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black 1SENIOR CONSULTANT Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by ... ... and that has made all the difference. THE ROAD NOT TAKEN by Robert Frost zen pencils.com ARTWORK O GAVIN AUNG THAN 2012

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Poetry - William Ernest Henley: Invictus

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Uploaded Mar 19, 2021 at 05:09PM EDT

Origin Entry

Poetry

Notes

Because I'm not sure how clear the text will be on a smaller screen, I'll just write up the whole poem here as well:

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.

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Source

Nemi by Lise Myhre (Translated from Norwegian)

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William Ernest Henley: Invictus

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Percy Bysshe Shelley: Ozymandias

Rudyard Kipling: If-

Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken

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Poetry - William Ernest Henley: Invictus

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