This is probably the first poem I remember hearing. My mother used to recite bits of it to me when I was very young, and the final two lines are, let me borrow from JFKerry here, “seared” into my memory. Every time I hear it, or see it in print, I’m seven years old again and sitting in the kitchen with my Mom, which is not a bad memory to have

The best part of this poem is that the author was no stranger to strife during his lifetime. He suffered from tuberculosis of the bone in an age when that meant painful disability and a lingering death, and wrote the poem in a hospital bed about a year after having his leg amputated below the knee due to his illness. However, he fought to remain active until his death at 53. Given his illness and the age in which he lived he must have been one helluva fighter. Good on ya’ Mr. Henley.

kaching:

(via ofsicknessanddesertion)