The Complete Poems of Rudyard Kipling – 570+ Titles in One Edition. Rudyard 1865-1936 Kipling

Ere it ebbed and sank and saddened

       To a whisper tense as wire.

      In tolerable stillness

       Rose one little, little star,

       And it chuckled at my illness,

       And it mocked me from afar;

       And its brethren came and eyed me,

       Called the Universe to aid,

       Till I lay, with naught to hide me,

       'Neath the Scorn of All Things Made.

      Dun and saffron, robed and splendid,

       Broke the solemn, pitying Day,

       And I knew my pains were ended,

       And I turned and tried to pray;

       But my speech was shattered wholly,

       And I wept as children weep.

      Till the dawn-wind, softly, slowly,

       Brought to burning eyelids sleep.

My Rival

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      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.

      I cannot check my girlish blush,

       My color 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.

      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.

      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.

      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!

      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.

      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.

The Lovers' Litany

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      Eyes of grey—a sodden quay,

       Driving rain and falling tears,

       As the steamer wears to sea

       In a parting storm of cheers.

      Sing, for Faith and Hope are high—

       None so true as you and I—

       Sing the Lovers' Litany:

       "Love like ours can never die!"

      Eyes of black—a throbbing keel,

       Milky foam to left and right;

       Whispered converse near the wheel

       In the brilliant tropic night.

      Cross that rules the Southern Sky!

       Stars that sweep and wheel and fly,

       Hear the Lovers' Litany:

       Love like ours can never die!"

      Eyes of brown—a dusty plain

       Split and parched with heat of June,

       Flying hoof and tightened rein,

       Hearts that beat the old, old tune.

      Side by side the horses fly,

       Frame we now the old reply

       Of the Lovers' Litany:

       "Love like ours can never die!"

      Eyes of blue—the Simla Hills

       Silvered with the moonlight hoar;

       Pleading of the waltz that thrills,

       Dies and echoes round Benmore.

      "Mabel," "Officers," "Goodbye,"

       Glamour, wine, and witchery—

       On my soul's sincerity,

       "Love like ours can never die!"

      Maidens of your charity,

       Pity my most luckless state.

       Four times Cupid's debtor I—

       Bankrupt in quadruplicate.

      Yet, despite this evil case,

       And a maiden showed me grace,

       Four-and-forty times would I

       Sing the Lovers' Litany:

       "Love like ours can never die!"

A Ballad of Burial

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      ("Saint @Proxed's ever was the Church for peace")

      If down here I chance to die,

       Solemnly I beg you take

       All that is left of "I"

       To the Hills for old sake's sake,

       Pack me very thoroughly

       In the ice that