Kipling

by Rudyard Kipling

  They are concerned with matters hidden – under the

  earth-line their altars are:

  The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn

  to restore to the mouth,

  And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again

  at a city’s drouth.

  They do not preach that their God will rouse them a

  little before the nuts work loose.

  They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave

  their work when they dam’-well choose.

  As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the

  dark and the desert they stand,

  Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren’s

  days may be long in the land.

  Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make some

  path more fair or flat –

  Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha

  spilled for that!

  Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness

  to any creed,

  But simple service simply given to his own kind in

  their common need.

  And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd – they

  know the angels are on their side.

  They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for

  them are the Mercies multiplied.

  They sit at the Feet – they hear the Word – they see

  how truly the Promise runs:

  They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and –

  the Lord He lays it on Martha’s Sons!

  THE EXPLANATION

  Love and Death once ceased their strife

  At the Tavern of Man’s Life.

  Called for wine, and threw – alas!

  Each his quiver on the grass.

  When the bout was o’er they found

  Mingled arrows strewed the ground.

  Hastily they gathered then

  Each the loves and lives of men.

  Ah, the fateful dawn deceived!

  Mingled arrows each one sheaved.

  Death’s dread armoury was stored

  With the shafts he most abhorred;

  Love’s light quiver groaned beneath

  Venom-headed darts of Death.

  Thus it was they wrought our woe

  At the Tavern long ago.

  Tell me, do our masters know,

  Loosing blindly as they fly,

  Old men love while young men die?

  THE ANSWER

  A Rose, in tatters on the garden path,

  Cried out to God and murmured ‘gainst His Wrath,

  Because a sudden wind at twilight’s hush

  Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.

  And God, Who hears both sun-dried dust and sun,

  Had pity, whispering to that luckless one,

  ‘Sister, in that thou sayest We did not well –

  ‘What voices heardst thou when thy Petals fell?’

  And the Rose answered, ‘In that evil hour

  ‘A voice said, “Father, wherefore falls the flower?

  ‘ “For lo, the very gossamers are still,”

  ‘And a voice answered, “Son, by Allah’s Will!” ’

  Then softly as a rain-mist on the sward,

  Came to the Rose the Answer of the Lord:

  ‘Sister, before We smote the Dark in twain,

  ’Ere yet the Stars saw one another plain,

  ‘Time, Tide, and Space, We bound unto the task

  ‘That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask.’

  Whereat the withered flower, all content,

  Died as they die whose days are innocent;

  While he who questioned why the flower fell

  Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell.

  A SONG OF TRAVEL

  Where’s the lamp that Hero lit

  Once to call Leander home?

  Equal Time hath shovelled it

  ‘Neath the wrack of Greece and Rome.

  Neither wait we any more

  That worn sail which Argo bore.

  Dust and dust of ashes close

  All the Vestal Virgins’ care;

  And the oldest altar shows

  But an older darkness there.

  Age-encamped Oblivion

  Tenteth every light that shone.

  Yet shall we, for Suns that die,

  Wall our wanderings from desire?

  Or, because the Moon is high,

  Scorn to use a nearer fire?

  Lest some envious Pharaoh stir,

  Make our lives our sepulchre?

  Nay! Though Time with petty Fate

  Prison us and Emperors,

  By our Arts do we create

  That which Time himself devours –

  Such machines as well may run

  ’Gainst the Horses of the Sun.

  When we would a new abode,

  Space, our tyrant King no more,

  Lays the long lance of the road

  At our feet and flees before,

  Breathless, ere we overwhelm,

  To submit a further realm!

  THE OLDEST SONG

  ‘For before Eve was Lilith.’ – OLD TALE

  ‘These were never your true love’s eyes.

  Why do you feign that you love them?

  You that broke from their constancies,

  And the wide calm brows above them!

  This was never your true love’s speech.

  Why do you thrill when you hear it?

  You that have ridden out of its reach

  The width of the world or near it!

  This was never your true love’s hair, –

  You that chafed when it bound you

  Screened from knowledge or shame or care,

  In the night that it made around you!’

  ‘All these things I know, I know.

  And that’s why my heart is breaking!’

  ‘Then what do you gain by pretending so?’

  ‘The joy of an old wound waking.’

  THE POWER OF THE DOG

  There is sorrow enough in the natural way

  From men and women to fill our day;

  And when we are certain of sorrow in store,

  Why do we always arrange for more?

  Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware

  Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

  Buy a pup and your money will buy

  Love unflinching that cannot lie –

  Perfect passion and worship fed

  By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.

  Nevertheless it is hardly fair

  To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

  When the fourteen years which Nature permits

  Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,

  And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs

  To lethal chambers or loaded guns,

  Then you will find – it’s your own affair –

  But … you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

  When the body that lived at your single will,

  With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)

  When the spirit that answered your every mood

  Is gone – wherever it goes – for good,

  You will discover how much you care,

  And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

  We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,

  When it comes to burying Christian clay.

  Our loves are not given, but only lent,

  At compound interest of cent per cent.

  Though it is not always the case, I believe,

  That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:

  For when debts are payable, right or wrong,

  A short-time loan is as bad as a long –

  So why in – Heaven (before we are there)

  Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

  THE PUZZLER

  Th
e Celt in all his variants from Builth to Ballyhoo,

  His mental processes are plain – one knows what he

  will do,

  And can logically predicate his finish by his start;

  But the English – ah, the English! – they are quite

  a race apart.

  Their psychology is bovine, their outlook crude

  and raw.

  They abandon vital matters to be tickled with a straw;

  But the straw that they were tickled with – the chaff

  that they were fed with –

  They convert into a weaver’s beam to break their

  foeman’s head with.

  For undemocratic reasons and for motives not of State,

  They arrive at their conclusions – largely inarticulate.

  Being void of self-expression they confide their views

  to none;

  But sometimes in a smoking-room, one learns why

  things were done.

  Yes, sometimes in a smoking-room, through clouds

  of ‘Ers’ and ‘Ums’,

  Obliquely and by inference, illumination comes,

  On some step that they have taken, or some action

  they approve –

  Embellished with the argot of the Upper Fourth Remove.

  In telegraphic sentences, half swallowed at the ends,

  They hint a matter’s inwardness – and there the

  matter ends.

  And while the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall,

  The English – ah, the English! – don’t say anything

  at all.

  NORMAN AND SAXON

  ‘My son,’ said the Norman Baron, ‘I am dying, and you

  will be heir

  To all the broad acres in England that William gave

  me for my share

  When we conquered the Saxon at Hastings, and a nice

  little handful it is.

  But before you go over to rule it I want you to

  understand this: –

  ‘The Saxon is not like us Normans. His manners are

  not so polite.

  But he never means anything serious till he talks

  about justice and right.

  When he stands like an ox in the furrow with his

  sullen set eyes on your own,

  And grumbles, “This isn’t fair dealing,” my son, leave

  the Saxon alone.

  ‘You can horsewhip your Gascony archers, or torture

  your Picardy spears;

  But don’t try that game on the Saxon; you’ll have the

  whole brood round your ears.

  From the richest old Thane in the county to the

  poorest chained serf in the field,

  They’ll be at you and on you like hornets, and, if you

  are wise, you will yield.

  ‘But first you must master their language, their

  dialect, proverbs and songs.

  Don’t trust any clerk to interpret when they come

  with the tale of their wrongs.

  Let them know that you know what they’re saying;

  let them feel that you know what to say.

  Yes, even when you want to go hunting, hear ’em out

  if it takes you all day.

  ‘They’ll drink every hour of the daylight and poach

  every hour of the dark.

  It’s the sport not the rabbits they’re after (we’ve

  plenty of game in the park).

  Don’t hang them or cut off their fingers. That’s

  wasteful as well as unkind,

  For a hard-bitten, South-country poacher makes the

  best man-at-arms you can find.

  ‘Appear with your wife and the children at their

  weddings and funerals and feasts.

  Be polite but not friendly to Bishops; be good to all

  poor parish priests.

  Say “we”, “us” and “ours” when you’re talking, instead

  of “you fellows” and “I”.

  Don’t ride over seeds; keep your temper, and never you

  tell ’em a lie!’

  SONG OF THE WISE CHILDREN

  When the darkened Fifties dip to the North,

  And frost and the fog divide the air,

  And the day is dead at his breaking-forth,

  Sirs, it is bitter beneath the Bear!

  Far to Southward they wheel and glance,

  The million molten spears of morn –

  The spears of our deliverance

  That shine on the house where we were born.

  Flying-fish about our bows,

  Flying sea-fires in our wake:

  This is the road to our Father’s House,

  Whither we go for our soul’s sake!

  We have forfeited our birthright,

  We have forsaken all things meet;

  We have forgotten the look of light,

  We have forgotten the scent of heat.

  They that walk with shaded brows,

  Year by year in a shining land,

  They be men of our Father’s House,

  They shall receive us and understand.

  We shall go back by the boltless doors,

  To the life unaltered our childhood knew –

  To the naked feet on the cool, dark floors,

  And the high-ceiled rooms that the Trade blows

  through:

  To the trumpet-flowers and the moon beyond,

  And the tree-toad’s chorus drowning all –

  And the lisp of the split banana-frond

  That talked us to sleep when we were small.

  The wayside magic, the threshold spells,

  Shall soon undo what the North has done –

  Because of the sights and the sounds and the smells

  That ran with our youth in the eye of the sun.

  And Earth accepting shall ask no vows,

  Nor the Sea our love, nor our lover the Sky.

  When we return to our Father’s House

  Only the English shall wonder why!

  THE RABBI’S SONG

  2 Samuel xiv. 14

  If thought can reach to Heaven,

  On Heaven let it dwell,

  For fear that Thought be given

  Like power to reach to Hell.

  For fear the desolation

  And darkness of thy mind

  Perplex an habitation

  Which thou hast left behind.

  Let nothing linger after –

  No whispering ghost remain,

  In wall, or beam, or rafter,

  Of any hate or pain.

  Cleanse and call home thy spirit,

  Deny her leave to cast,

  On aught thy heirs inherit,

  The shadow of her past.

  For think, in all thy sadness,

  What road our grief may take;

  Whose brain reflect our madness,

  Or whom our terrors shake:

  For think, lest any languish

  By cause of thy distress –

  The arrows of our anguish

  Fly farther than we guess.

  Our lives, our tears, as water,

  Are spilled upon the ground;

  God giveth no man quarter,

  Yet God a means hath found,

  Though faith and hope have vanished,

  And even love grows dim –

  A means whereby His banished

  Be not expelled from Him!

  A CHARM

  Take of English earth as much

  As either hand may rightly clutch.

  In the taking of it breathe

  Prayer for all who lie beneath –

  Not the great nor well-bespoke,

  But the mere uncounted folk

  Of whose life and death is none

  Report or lamentation.

  Lay that earth upon thy heart,

  And thy sickness shall depart!

  It shall sweeten and
make whole

  Fevered breath and festered soul.

  It shall mightily restrain

  Over-busy hand and brain.

  It shall ease thy mortal strife

  ’Gainst the immortal woe of life,

  Till thyself restored shall prove

  By what grace the Heavens do move.

  Take of English flowers these –

  Spring’s full-facèd primroses,

  Summer’s wild wide-hearted rose,

  Autumn’s wall-flower of the close,

  And, thy darkness to illume,

  Winter’s bee-thronged ivy-bloom.

  Seek and serve them where they hide

  From Candlemas to Christmas-tide,

  For these simples, used aright,

  Shall restore a failing sight.

  These shall cleanse and purify

  Webbed and inward-turning eye;

  These shall show thee treasure hid

  Thy familiar fields amid,

  At thy threshold, on thy hearth

  Or about thy daily path;

  And reveal (which is thy need)

  Every man a King indeed!

  COLD IRON

  ‘Gold is for the mistress – silver for the maid –

  Coffer for the craftsman cunning in his trade.’

  ‘Good!’ said the Baron, sitting in his hall,

  ‘But Iron – Cold Iron – is master of them all.’

  So he made rebellion ’gainst the King his liege,

  Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.

  ‘Nay!’ said the cannoneer on the castle wall,

  ‘But Iron – Cold Iron – shall be master of you all!’

  Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,

  When the cruel cannon-balls laid ’em all along;

  He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,

  And Iron – Cold Iron – was master of it all!

  Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)

  ‘What if I release thee now and give thee back

  thy sword?’