In victors, by William Ernest Henley. 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 plutch of circumstance, I have not winceed nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning winds of chance, my head is bloody but unbound. 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 straight the gate, how charged with punishments the scrawl. I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.