Poems – Page 10 – The Kipling Society

Out of Sight

Out of thy sight—away from thy lips' smiling—
  Out of thy sight—away from thy pure eyes
I spend the weary moments in reviling 
  The fate that ruleth all men's destinies
Whereby we two—being one—are far apart 
Whereby we two—being one—are two indeed 
When longing heart calls out to longing heart
  And hands outstretched help not each lover's need—
Out of thy sight—what good is it complaining?—
  Since neither sees the other where we stand— 
  Surely the sunshine cometh after raining,
And after tempest—peace is in the land; 
The Gods are not so hard they shall deny
  Some recompense  for sorrow—bye and bye.

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Our Lady of Rest

The wind in the pine sings Her praises, 
  The snows of the North are Her seat, 
The bluebells and little Hill-daisies 
  Make gorgeous the ground at Her feet. 
There is health in Her hand for the taking, 
  There is peace on the calm of Her breast, 
And we yearn to Her, sleeping and waking, 
          Our Lady of Rest!

The Earth is hot iron beneath us, 
  The Heavens are brazen above, 
The winds of the Firmament seethe us 
  With blasts from the Pit as they rove. 
The cool and the shade have retreated, 
  The levin-lit dust-clouds attest; 
Our furnace is seven times heated,
          O Lady of Rest!

`I have built ye a marvellous palace, 
  As chill and as green as the sea. 
Come up-come away from the valleys; 
  Inherit, my children, with me!' 
Though the yoke of our servitude gall us, 
  Laborious, burdened, unblest,
Dare we turn at Her voice, though She call us, 
          Our Lady of Rest?

Not ours the silence and scorning, 
  Not ours the fault of delay.
Clear twilight brings merciless morning, 
  And night little rest after day.
For a handful of silver we sold us,
  White slaves from the Isles of the West, 
And the chains of captivity hold us,
          Our Lady of Rest!

Be good to us out of Thy pity, 
  For surely, in time, it shall be 
That we fly from the sun-smitten city, 
  That we win to the mountains and Thee; 
And, at last, when the weary Plains leave us, 
  When we climb the Himalayan crest, 
From the smoke of our torments receive us, 
           Our Lady of Rest!

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On Fort Duty

There's tumult in the Khyber, 
There's feud at Ali Kheyl;
  For the Maliks of the Khyber
Are at it tooth and nail—
  With the stolen British carbine 
And the long Kohat jezail.  

And I look across the ramparts
  To the northward and the snow 
To the far Cherat cantonments;
  But alas! I cannot go
 From the dusty, dreary ramparts 
  Where the cannons grin arow!

There's fighting in the Khyber, 
  But it isn't meant for me,
Who am sent upon  'Fort-duty' 
  By this pestilent Ravi,
With just one other subaltern,
  And not a soul to see.

Oh! it's everlasting gun-drill 
  And eight-o'clock parades,
It's cleaning-up of mortars 
  (Likewise of carronades),
While the passes ring with rifles 
  And the noise of Afghan raids.

And I look across the ramparts 
  To the river broad and grey,
And I think of merry England
  Where the festive Horse Guards play. 
Oh! take the senior grades for this
  And spare the young R.A.!

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On a recent memorial

1 
Verbum sap. —Oh, wise Bengalis, it is very sad to find
We cannot mistake your meaning; it would prove us worse than blind,
So forgive us if our answer be unwelcome or unkind.
2 
Truth, that nasty, nude old beldame, lives (thank Heaven) underground,
But alas! upon occasion speaks with no uncertain sound.—
Though your ring-fence be a large one, yet the iron runs all round.
3 
You may bush it up with laurels—academic if you please, 
Hide it neath the brick and mortar of a hundred colleges, 
In the centre (do we stop you?) print sedition at your ease.
4 
Strip the laurels, raze the buildings? more's the pity. They were fair,
(Served to shield your budding fancies from the nipping outer air)
Rises Private Thomas Atkins to attention,—'As you were.'  
5 
For we love not to obtrude him. See! the fence is lost to view, 
Greener grow the verdant laurels; rise the colleges anew,
But the laurels men call martial are not meant for such as you.
6 
'Tis a brutal truth and ancient—but Time's verdict on your race—
Be content with mere sedition; rise to high judicial place;
Point to 'galling race distinctions' with your smooth Bengali grace.
7 
Yet forget not, Holy Russia would have hanged you for one word 
Of the deftly put Memorial lately printed and preferred—	
Will you pardon then our laughter when we call the thing—absurd?

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Of Birthdays

For us Life's wheel runs backward. Other nests
          Are stripped of all their fledglings when our Fate 
          Pitying may be, a childhood  desolate,
Brings home deferred,—unparted each one rests 
          Beneath one roof.
                                           But the year's fitful span
          Brings change & growth & half displeased you say
          Musing upon the babes of yesterday: 
'Behold, she is a woman; He a man.'

Yet, spite of all, the childish wonder clings 
          About our spirits when we hear him say—
          Our Father—'Children I was born to-day.'
And we return to nursery wonderings
          Back comes the childish question to the tongue 
          Father a child!—Was Father ever young?

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Now it is not good

Now it is not good for the Christian's health to hustle the Aryan brown,
For the Christian riles, and the Aryan smiles and he weareth the Christian down;
And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name of the late deceased,
And the epitaph drear: "A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East."
                                                                            Solo from Libretto of Naulahka

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Night Song in the Jungle

Now Chil the Kite brings home the night
  That Mang the Bat sets free— 
The herds are shut in byre and hut, 
  For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power, 
  Talon and tush and claw.
Oh, hear the call!—Good hunting all 
  That keep the Jungle Law!

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The Night of Power

In the beginning when the earth was new 
Thar made the Tyger Monarch till he slew 
Thar's uncle wandering in human shape
Among the wood-ways. Then was crowned the Ape
Who walked unseemly till he made the name
Of King of Beasts a scoffing and a shame.
Thereafter, through the listening woods [trembling earth] the mandate ran
"Henceforth obey ye for your ruler man" 
And with the word fell fear as fires pass
In later summer through the dry plumed grass 
Great fear there was of this poor naked thing
Couched in the caves who knew not he was King 
Only the tyger mindful of his fall—
Fled to the wilds and had no fear at all,
But nightly roaring 'neath the new made sky, 
Cried out to Thar for his lost Sovereignty 
And Thar who is as faithful as the rains,
Who strows the swarming blackbuck on the plains, 
Who sends the wind that makes the devils flee, 
And bids the [mheia?] bloom abundantly
And teaches man to mat the grass and make 
Strong shelters that the wild-pig cannot break
[And lights the sun to call the
Who was, before the oldest and shall be live 
After the youngest climb pass:] 
Caetera desunt. try again some other night

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The Night Before

1 
I sneered when I heard the old priest complain 
That the doomed are voiceless, and dull of brain,
  For why should a felon be other than dumb 
  As he stands at the gate of the world to come?
          The tick-tock
          Of the great jail clock,
Is more to me than the holiest prayer 
That ever was mingled with dungeon air.
2 
Will it never be dawn in the cold, grey skies? 
The great, red sun, will he never arise,
  Thrusting his rays in my iron-barred cell, 
  And lighting the city I know so well?
          Will the tick-tock
          Of the great jail clock,
Beat for ever through brain and heart
Till the tortured soul from the body part?
3 
And now in the gloom of the grated cell 
Rises a figure I know full well.
  Gashed of throat, and broken of limb, 
  What do I want today with him?
          To the tick-tock
          Of the pitiless clock
His body is swaying, slowly and free, 
While his shadowy finger points at me.
4 
Will it never be here—the dawn of day, 
With the summons to carry my life away?
  Nothing to scatter the terrible gloom, 
  Nothing to herald the hour of doom
          But the tick-tock
          Of the ceaseless clock,
And the tread of the tired policeman's feet 
As he steadily paces the echoing street.
5 
At last the darkness is melting away
In the corpse-like light on the face of day, 
  I hear the carts in the street once more
  And the sheriffs step on the stony floor, 
          And the tick-tock
          Of the great jail clock,
The whispered words of the warder's round, 
And every whisper a thunder-sound!
6 
A mockery! This is the formal demand
In the mighty name of the law of the land, 
  For the body of him who is doomed to die 
  In the face of men and beneath the sky.
I am safe in your thrall, yet bind me well, 
For I might be desperate—who can tell?
As I march to the sound of the clanging bell,
          And the tick-tock
          Of the great jail clock,
And the voice of the priest as he mumbles a prayer, 
And the hum of the crowd that awaits me there!

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My Rival

1
I go to concert, party, ball—
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
They burn before her shrine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is forty-nine.
2 
I cannot check my girlish blush,
My colour comes and goes;
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be,
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.
3
I wish I had Her constant cheek;
I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
Not quite the proper thing.
I'm very gauche and very shy,
Her jokes aren't in my line;
And, worst of all, I'm seventeen
While She is forty-nine.
4
The young men come, the young men go
Each pink and white and neat,
She's older than their mothers, but
They grovel at Her feet.
They walk beside Her 'rickshaw wheels—
None ever walk by mine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is forty-nine.
5
She rides with half a dozen men,
(She calls them "boys" and "mashers")
I trot along the Mall alone;
My prettiest frocks and sashes
Don't help to fill my programme-card,
And vainly I repine
From ten to two A.M. Ah me!
Would I were forty-nine!
6
She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear,"
And "sweet retiring maid."
I'm always at the back, I know,
She puts me in the shade.
She introduces me to men,
"Cast" lovers, I opine,
For sixty takes to seventeen,
Nineteen to forty-nine.
7
But even She must older grow
And end Her dancing days,
She can't go on forever so
At concerts, balls and plays.
One ray of priceless hope I see
Before my footsteps shine;
Just think, that She'll be eighty-one
When I am forty-nine.

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