Poems – Page 30 – The Kipling Society

The Reeds of Runnymede

At Runnymede, at Runnymede
  What say the reeds at Runnymede?
The lissom reeds that give and take,
That bend so far, but never break,
They keep the sleepy Thames awake
  With tales of John at Runnymede.

At Runnymede, at Runnymede,
  Oh, hear the reeds at Runnymede:–
"You mustn't sell, delay, deny,
A freeman's right or liberty.
It wakes the stubborn Englishry,
  We saw 'em roused at Runnymede!

"When through our ranks the Barons came,
  With little thought of praise or blame,
But resolute to play the game,
They lumbered up to Runnymede;
And there they launched in solid time 
The first attack on Right Divine–
The curt, uncompromising 'Sign!'
  That settled John at Runnymede.

"At Runnymede, at Runnymede,
Your rights were won at Runnymede!
No freeman shall be fined or bound,
  Or dispossessed of freehold ground,
Except by lawful judgment found 
And passed upon him by his peers.
Forget not, after all these years,
  The Charter Signed at Runnymede."

And still when Mob or Monarch lays
Too rude a hand on English ways,
The whisper wakes, the shudder plays,
  Across the reeds at Runnymede.
And Thames, that knows the moods of kings,
And crowds and priests and suchlike things,
Rolls deep and dreadful as he brings
  Their warning down from Runnymede!

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The Recall

I am the land of their fathers. 
In me the virtue stays. 
I will bring back my children,
After certain days.

Under their feet in the grasses
My clinging magic runs. 
They shall return as strangers.
They shall remain as sons.

Over their heads in the branches
Of their new-bought, ancient trees, 
I weave an incantation 
And draw them to my knees.

Scent of smoke in the evening,
Smell of rain in the night—
The hours, the days and the seasons,
Order their souls aright,

Till I make plain the meaning 
Of all my thousand years—
Till I fill their hearts with knowledge,
While I fill their eyes with tears.

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The Question of Givens

1
Sir, with the scalpel and delicate knives 
Hacking a hole in the guinea-pig's brain,
Versed in the Why of our poor little lives, 
Study the papers and kindly explain.
Something seems wrong in the scheme that you drew—
Please reconstruct your Creation anew.
2
Yes, I am sure that the Lord is a fiction, 
Yes, I am sure from a germ-blob of earth,
Slowly we clomb into dress-clothes and diction, 
Sat on a chair and told lies of our birth:
I'm one Ascidian and you are another—
What about Givens, my erudite brother?
3
What about Givens? Hell Fire's exploded— 
He did his best in a close imitation—
Held a lit steamer with cotton-bales loaded 
Hard on the bank, for the people's salvation—
Burned like an onion and broke as he died
Nature's first law which is:—'Keep a whole hide.'
4
What was the motive that led him to danger? 
Why did he stick to the wheel like a fool?
Why did he trouble to rescue the stranger
When he might jump in the stream and be cool?
Death could be found in a prettier way,
Why did he plump for an Auto da Fe?
5
What was the instinct—acquired or inherited? 
Dim recollection of Sunday–School teaching?
Desperate rush to the Fate that he merited? 
Practical finish of Methody preaching?
He was a deck-hand—it wasn't his pidgin
Rashly to riot in flames or religion.
6
Though you shall read in a work of devotion 
Something that says there is no love exceeding
Death for a friend's sake, that wasn't his notion:
He held the wheel while the rest fled unheeding.
Deck-hands and passengers love in their station—
What shall we think of this Type–Aberration?
7
Mark him, defunct now, a lusus naturae.
Say he was mad or suggest he was drunk.
Write on his tombstone:—'He tasted Death's fury
Long ere he died, too uncultured to funk.'
Add there:—'Resurgat—as wheat haulm or tree.'
So much for Givens—but what about Me?
8
Hand back that God that you diddled me out of— 
Hand back the prayer-book you said was a sham—
Give me some Power I haven't a doubt of— 
Something almighty to bless and to damn!
Deuce take your atoms and test-tubes that smell—
Givens won Heaven by walking through Hell!
9
If he comes out in the Dark on the far side—
Finds there is neither Gold Doorway nor Throne—
He will steer straight for some unannexed starside,
Start, on his merits, a Heaven of his own.
Sidney will help him, while you on the earth
Write to the Times of a new planet's birth.
10
So! You can prove me an anthropoid whats-its-name, 
Post-proto-blasto-Caesarian It—
Work your philosophy, gentlemen—rat's its name— 
Try it on Givens and Givens won't fit.
All that you know of the Earth, Sky or Sea
Doesn't account for that fellow—or Me!

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The Question

1
Brethren, how shall it fare with me
  When the war is laid aside,
If it be proven that I am he
  For whom a world has died?
2
If it be proven that all my good,
  And the greater good I will make,
Were purchased me by a multitude
  Who suffered for my sake?
3
That I was delivered by mere mankind
  Vowed to one sacrifice,
And not, as I hold them, battle-blind,
  But dying with open eyes?
4
That they did not ask me to draw the sword
   When they stood to endure their lot–
That they only looked to me for a word,
  And I answered I knew them not?
5
If it be found, when the battle clears,
  Their death has set me free,
Then how shall I live with myself through the years
  Which they have bought for me?
6
Brethren, how must it fare with me,
  Or how am I justified,
If it be proven that I am he
   For whom mankind has died–
If it be proven that I am he
  Who, being questioned, denied?

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The Puzzler

The 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" an "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 nodded to their friends,
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.

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The Progress of the Spark

This spark now set, retarded, yet forbears 
To hold her light however so he swears
That turns a metalled crank, and leather cloked,
With some small hammers tappeth hither an yon;
Peering as when she showeth and when is gone;
For wait he must till the vext Power’s evoked
That’s one with the lightnings. Wait in the showers soaked;
Or by the road-side sunned. She’ll not progress.
Poor soul, here taught how great things may by less
Be stayed, to file contacts doth himself address!

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The Press

The Soldier may forget his Sword,
  The Sailorman the Sea,
The Mason may forget the Word
  And the Priest his Litany:
The Maid may forget both jewel and gem,
  And the Bride her wedding-dress–
But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem 
  Ere we forget the Press! 

Who once hath stood through the loaded hour 
  Ere, roaring like the gale,
The Harrild and the Hoe devour 
  Their league-long paper-bale,
And has lit his pipe in the morning calm 
   That follows the midnight stress– 
He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art 
   We call the daily Press. 

Who once hath dealt in the widest game
  That all of a man can play,
No later love, no larger fame
  Will lure him long away.
As the war-horse snuffeth the battle afar,
  The entered Soul, no less,
He saith: "Ha! Ha!" where the trumpets are 
  And the thunders of the Press! 

Canst thou number the days that we fulfill,
   Or the Times that we bring forth? 
Canst thou send the lightnings to do thy will, 
   And cause them reign on earth?
Hast thou given a peacock goodly wings,
  To please his foolishness? 
Sit down at the heart of men and things,
   Companion of the Press!  

The Pope may launch his Interdict,
  The Union its decree,
But the bubble is blown and the bubble is pricked 
  By Us and such as We.
Remember the battle and stand aside 
  While Thrones and Powers confess 
That King over all the children of pride 
   Is the Press–the Press–the Press!

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The Prayer of Miriam Cohen

From the wheel and the drift of Things
Deliver us, Good Lord,
And we will face the wrath of Kings
The faggot and the sword! 

Lay not Thy Works before our eyes
Nor vex us with Thy Wars
Lest we should feel the straining skies
O’ertrod by trampling stars. 

Hold us secure behind the gates
Of saving flesh and bone,
Lest we should dream what Dream awaits
The soul escaped alone. 

Thy Path, Thy Purposes conceal
From our beleaguered realm,
Lest any shattering whisper steal
Upon us and o’erwhelm. 

A veil ’twixt us and Thee, Good Lord,
A veil ’twixt us and Thee,
Lest we should hear too clear, too clear,
And unto madness see!

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The Prairie

“I see the grass shake in the sun for leagues on either hand,
I see a river loop and run about a treeless land—
An empty plain, a steely pond, a distance diamond-clear,
And low blue naked hills beyond. And what is that to fear?”

“Go softly by that river-side or, when you would depart,
You’ll find its every winding tied and knotted round your heart.
Be wary as the seasons pass, or you may ne’er outrun
The wind that sets that yellowed grass a-shiver ’neath the Sun.” 

“I hear the summer storm outblown—the drip of the grateful wheat.
I hear the hard trail telephone a far-off horse’s feet.
I hear the horns of Autumn blow to the wild-fowl overhead;
And I hear the hush before the snow. And what is that to dread?”

“Take heed what spell the lightning weaves—what charm the echoes shape—
Or, bound among a million sheaves, your soul shall not escape.
Bar home the door of summer nights lest those high planets drown
The memory of near delights in all the longed-for town.” 

“What need have I to long or fear? Now, friendly, I behold
My faithful seasons robe the year in silver and in gold.
Now I possess and am possessed of the land where I would be,
And the curve of half Earth’s generous breast shall soothe and ravish me!”

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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?

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