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161 pages

English

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This anthology of William Ernest Henley’s poetry features some of the most beautiful and deeply moving pieces in the Victorian writer’s collection.

First published in 1898, this collection includes the poems William Ernest Henley wrote during and inspired by his time spent in hospital after suffering complications from tuberculosis. His left leg was amputated when he was just 16 and after complications arose with his diseased right foot, he refused to repeat the procedure. The writer produced pieces with vivid imagery and poignant messages based on his tragic personal experience. His In Hospital anthology contains some of the earliest free-verse poems in English literature, and focused on the aftermaths of major surgery and amputation. Delve into the poet’s world and discover some of the most beautiful poetry of the Victorian era.

This volume features poetry from the following anthologies:

- In Hospital

- Echoes

- London Voluntaries - To Charles Whibley
In Hospital: Enter Patient; Waiting; Interior; Before; Operation; After; Vigil; Staff-Nurse: Old Style; Lady-Probationer; Staff-Nurse: New Style; Clinical; Etching; Casualty; Ave Caeser!; ‘the Chief’; House-Surgeon; Interlude; Children: Private Ward; Scrubber; Visitor; Romance; Pastoral; Music; Suicide; Apparition; Anterotics; Nocturn; Discharged. | Envoy; The Song Of The Sword; Arabian Nights’ Entertainments; Bric-A-Brac; Ballade Of A Toyokuni Colour-Print; Ballade (Double Refrain) of Youth and Age; Ballade (Double Refrain) of Midsummer Days and Nights; Ballade of Dead Actors; Ballade Made in the Hot Weather; Ballade of Truisms; Double Ballade of Life and Fate; Double Ballade of the Nothingness of Things; At Queensferry; Orientale; In Fisherrow; Back-View; Croluis; Attadale West Highlands; From a Window in Princes Street; In the Dials; The Gods are Dead; Let Us be Drunk; When You Are Old; Beside the Idle Summer Sea; The Ways of Death are Soothing and Serene; We Shall Surely Die; What Is to Come. | Echoes. | London Voluntaries—To Charles WhibleyGrave: Andante Con Moto; Scherzando; Largo E Mesto; Allegro Maestoso. | Rhymes and Rhythms

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Irish

English

Poetry

European

Welsh

Scottish

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Publié par	Read Books Ltd.
Date de parution	13 février 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781473397248
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Poems
by
William Ernest Henley

Copyright © 2013 Read Books Ltd.
This book is copyright and may not be
reproduced or copied in any way without
the express permission of the publisher in writing
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Contents
Poems
William Ernest Henley
DEDICATION
ADVERTISEMENT
IN HOSPITAL
I—ENTER PATIENT
II—WAITING
III—INTERIOR
IV—BEFORE
V—OPERATION
VI—AFTER
VII—VIGIL
VIII—STAFF-NURSE: OLD STYLE
IX—LADY-PROBATIONER
X—STAFF-NURSE: NEW STYLE
XI—CLINICAL
XII—ETCHING
XIII—CASUALTY
XIV—AVE CAESER!
XV—’THE CHIEF’
XVI—HOUSE-SURGEON
XVII—INTERLUDE
XVIII—CHILDREN: PRIVATE WARD
XVIIII—SCRUBBER
XX—VISITOR
XXI—ROMANCE
XXII—PASTORAL
XXIII—MUSIC
XXIV—SUICIDE
XXV—APPARITION
XXVI—ANTEROTICS
XXVII—NOCTURN
XXVIII—DISCHARGED
ENVOY
THE SONG OF THE SWORD
ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS
BRIC-A-BRAC
BALLADE OF A TOYOKUNI COLOUR-PRINT
BALLADE (DOUBLE REFRAIN) OF YOUTH AND AGE
BALLADE (DOUBLE REFRAIN) OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS
BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS
BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER
BALLADE OF TRUISMS
DOUBLE BALLADE OF LIFE AND FATE
DOUBLE BALLADE OF THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS
AT QUEENSFERRY
ORIENTALE
IN FISHERROW
BACK-VIEW
CROLUIS
ATTADALE WEST HIGHLANDS
FROM A WINDOW IN PRINCES STREET
IN THE DIALS
THE GODS ARE DEAD
LET US BE DRUNK
WHEN YOU ARE OLD
BESIDE THE IDLE SUMMER SEA
THE WAYS OF DEATH ARE SOOTHING AND SERENE
WE SHALL SURELY DIE
WHAT IS TO COME
ECHOES
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLVI
XLII
XLIII
XLIV
XLV
XLVI
XLVII
LONDON VOLUNTARIES—To Charles Whibley
I—GRAVE
II—ANDANTE CON MOTO
III—SCHERZANDO
IV—LARGO E MESTO
V—ALLEGRO MAESTOSO
RHYMES AND RHYTHMS
PROLOGUE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
EPILOGUE

William Ernest Henley
William Ernest Henley was born on 23rd August 1849, in Gloucester, England.
He attended Crypt Grammar School in Gloucester where the poet, scholar, and theologian, T. E. Brown, was headmaster. Brown had a made a huge impression on the young Henley and the two struck up a lifelong friendship. Henley claimed Brown to be “a man of Genius – the first I’d ever seen”, and upon Brown’s death in 1897, Henley wrote an admiring obituary to him in the New Review .
From the age of 12, Henley suffered from tuberculosis of the bone which eventually resulted in his left leg having to be amputated below the knee. According to Robert Louis Stevenson’s letters, the character of Long John Silver was inspired by his friend Henley.
In 1867, Henley passed the Oxford Local Schools Examination and set off to London to establish himself as a journalist. Unfortunately, his career was frequently interrupted by long stays in hospital due to a diseased right foot which he refused to have amputated. During a three year stay at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, Henley wrote and published his collection of poetry In Hospital (1875). This publication is noteworthy in particular for being some of the earliest examples of free verse written in England.
Henley married Hannah (Anna) Johnson Boyle on 22nd January 1878. The couple had one daughter together, Margaret, who died at the age of five and is reportedly the source of the name Wendy in J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. Apparently she used to call Barrie her “fwendy wendy”, resulting in the use of the name in the children’s classic.
Henley’s best-remembered work is his poem “Invictus”, written in 1888. It is a passionate and defiant poem, reportedly written as a demonstration of resilience following the amputation of his leg. This poem was famously recited to fellow inmates at Robben Island prison by Nelson Mandela to spread the message of empowerment and self-mastery. He also wrote a notable work of literary criticisms, Views and Reviews, in 1890, in which he covered a wide range of works by prominent authors.
Henley died of tuberculosis in 1903 at the age of 53 at his home in Woking, and his ashes were interred in his daughter’s grave in the churchyard at Cockayne Hatley in Bedfordshire, England.

DEDICATION
—TO MY WIFE
Take, dear, my little sheaf of songs, For, old or new, All that is good in them belongs Only to you;
And, singing as when all was young, They will recall Those others, lived but left unsung - The bent of all. W. E. H APRIL 1888 SEPTEMBER 1897.

ADVERTISEMENT
My friend and publisher, Mr. Alfred Nutt, asks me to introduce this re-issue of old work in a new shape. At his request, then, I have to say that nearly all the numbers contained in the present volume are reprinted from ‘A Book of Verses’ (1888) and ‘London Voluntaries’ (1892-3). From the first of these I have removed some copies of verse which seemed to me scarce worth keeping; and I have recovered for it certain others from those publications which had made room for them. I have corrected where I could, added such dates as I might, and, by re-arrangement and revision, done my best to give my book, such as it is, its final form. If any be displeased by the result, I can but submit that my verses are my own, and that this is how I would have them read.
The work of revision has reminded me that, small as is this book of mine, it is all in the matter of verse that I have to show for the years between 1872 and 1897. A principal reason is that, after spending the better part of my life in the pursuit of poetry, I found myself (about 1877) so utterly unmarketable that I had to own myself beaten in art, and to addict myself to journalism for the next ten years. Came the production by my old friend, Mr. H. B. Donkin, in his little collection of ‘Voluntaries’ (1888), compiled for that East-End Hospital to which he has devoted so much time and energy and skill, of those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme, my impressions of the Old Edinburgh Infirmary. They had long since been rejected by every editor of standing in London—I had well-nigh said in the world; but as soon as Mr. Nutt had read them, he entreated me to look for more. I did as I was told; old dusty sheaves were dragged to light; the work of selection and correction was begun; I burned much; I found that, after all, the lyrical instinct had slept—not died; I ventured (in brief) ‘A Book of Verses.’ It was received with so much interest that I took heart once more, and wrote the numbers presently reprinted from ‘The National Observer’ in the collection first (1892) called ‘The Song of the Sword’ and afterwards (1893), ‘London voluntaries.’ If I have said nothing since, it is that I have nothing to say which is not, as yet, too personal—too personal and too a afflicting—for utterance.
For the matter of my book, it is there to speak for itself:-
‘Here’s a sigh to those who love me And a smile to those who hate.’
I refer to it for the simple pleasure of reflecting that it has made me many friends and some enemies.
W. E. H.
Muswell Hill, 4th September 1897.

IN HOSPITAL
On ne saurait dire e quel point un homme, seul dans son lit et malade, devient personnel. -
BALZAC

I—ENTER PATIENT
The morning mists still haunt the stony street; The northern summer air is shrill and cold; And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old, Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet. Thro’ the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom A small, strange child—so aged yet so young! - Her little arm besplinted and beslung, Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room. I limp behind, my confidence all gone. The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on, And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail: A tragic meanness seems so to environ These corridors and stairs of stone and iron, Cold, naked, clean—half-workhouse and half-jail.

II—WAITING
A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion), Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight; Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware; Scissors and lint and apothecary’s jars.
Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from, Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted: Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach, While at their ease two dressers do their chores.
One has a probe—it feels to me a crowbar. A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone. A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers. Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.

III—INTERIOR
The gaunt brown walls Look infinite in their decent meanness. There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle, The fulsome fire.
The atmosphere Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist. Dressings and lint on the long, lean table - Whom are they for?
The patients yawn, Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin. A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles. It’s grim and strange.
Far footfalls clank. The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged. My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . . O, a gruesome world!

IV—BEFORE
Behold me waiting—waiting for the knife. A little while, and at a leap I s