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And lo, the Hospital, gray, quiet, old, Where life and death like friendly chafferers meet.

William Ernest Henley

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William Ernest Henley
Age: 53 †
Born: 1849
Born: August 23
Died: 1903
Died: July 11
Editor
Journalist
Literary Critic
Poet
Writer
W. E. Henley
Gray
Friendly
Medical
Meet
Quiet
Death
Life
Hospital
Like
Hospitals

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Open your heart and take us in, Love-love and me.
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Madam Life's a piece in bloom Death goes dogging everywhere: she's the tenant of the room, he's the ruffian on the stair.
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Essayists, like poets, are born and not made, and for one worth remembering, the world is confronted with a hundred not worth reading. Your true essayist is, in a literary sense, the friend of everybody.
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Life is worth Living Through every grain of it, From the foundations To the last edge Of the cornerstone, death.
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Shakespeare and Rembrandt have in common the faculty of quickening speculation and compelling the minds of men to combat and discussion.
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Now, to read poetry at all is to have an ideal anthology of one's own, and in that possession to be incapable of content with the anthologies of all the world besides.
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There are two men in Tolstoy. He is a mystic and he is also a realist. He is addicted to the practice of a pietism that for all its sincerity is nothing if not vague and sentimental and he is the most acute and dispassionate of observers, the most profound and earnest student of character and emotion.
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Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
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A late lark twitters from the quiet skies.
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O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one. (Between the Dusk of a Summer Night, 13-16)
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Life - life - life! 'Tis the sole great thing This side of death, Heart on heart in the wonder of Spring!
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This is the merit and distinction of art: to be more real than reality, to be not nature but nature's essence.
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Here is the ghost Of a summer that lived for us, Ere is a promise Of summer to be.
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It is the artist's function not to copy but to synthesise: to eliminate from that gross confusion of actuality which is his raw material whatever is accidental, idle, irrelevant, and select for perpetuation that only which is appropriate and immortal.
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Life is, I think, a blunder and a shame.
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Who but knows How it goes! Life's a last year's Nightingale, Love's a last year's rose.
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beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade
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In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud: Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.
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Men there have been who have done the essayist's part so well as to have earned an immortality in the doing but we have had not many of them, and they make but a poor figure on our shelves. It is a pity that things should be thus with us, for a good essayist is the pleasantest companion imaginable.
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Shakespeare often writes so ill that you hesitate to believe he could ever write supremely well or, if this way of putting it seem indecorous and abominable, he very often writes so well that you are loth to believe he could ever have written thus extremely ill.
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