The Complete Poetical Works of Rudyard Kipling (570+ Poems in One Edition). Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

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      The toad beneath the harrow knows

       Exactly where each tooth-point goes.

       The butterfly upon the road

       Preaches contentment to that toad.

      Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith—

       He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth";

       Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November,

       And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September.

      March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay,

       Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay."

       March went out with the roses. "Where is your heat?" said he.

       "Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.P.

      April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat,—

       Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.

       He grew speckled and mumpy—hammered, I grieve to say,

       Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.

      May set in with a dust-storm,—Pagett went down with the sun.

       All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.

       Imprimis—ten day's "liver"—due to his drinking beer;

       Later, a dose of fever—slight, but he called it severe.

      Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat—

       Lowered his portly person—made him yearn to depart.

       He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid,"

       But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed.

      July was a trifle unhealthy,—Pagett was ill with fear.

       'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear.

       He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears;

       But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years.

      We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon,

       (I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon.

       That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled

       With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head.

      And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips

       As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips,"

       And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land,

       And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.

The Song of the Women

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      How shall she know the worship we would do her?

       The walls are high, and she is very far.

       How shall the woman's message reach unto her

       Above the tumult of the packed bazaar?

       Free wind of March, against the lattice blowing,

       Bear thou our thanks, lest she depart unknowing.

      Go forth across the fields we may not roam in,

       Go forth beyond the trees that rim the city,

       To whatsoe'er fair place she hath her home in,

       Who dowered us with wealth of love and pity.

       Out of our shadow pass, and seek her singing—

       "I have no gifts but Love alone for bringing."

      Say that we be a feeble folk who greet her,

       But old in grief, and very wise in tears;

       Say that we, being desolate, entreat her

       That she forget us not in after years;

       For we have seen the light, and it were grievous

       To dim that dawning if our lady leave us.

      By life that ebbed with none to stanch the failing

       By Love's sad harvest garnered in the spring,

       When Love in ignorance wept unavailing

       O'er young buds dead before their blossoming;

       By all the grey owl watched, the pale moon viewed,

       In past grim years, declare our gratitude!

      By hands uplifted to the Gods that heard not,

       By fits that found no favor in their sight,

       By faces bent above the babe that stirred not,

       By nameless horrors of the stifling night;

       By ills foredone, by peace her toils discover,

       Bid Earth be good beneath and Heaven above her!

      If she have sent her servants in our pain

       If she have fought with Death and dulled his sword;

       If she have given back our sick again.

       And to the breast the waking lips restored,

       Is it a little thing that she has wrought?

       Then Life and Death and Motherhood be nought.

      Go forth, O wind, our message on thy wings,

       And they shall hear thee pass and bid thee speed,

       In reed-roofed hut, or white-walled home of kings,

       Who have been helpen by her in their need.

      All spring shall give thee fragrance, and the wheat

       Shall be a tasselled floorcloth to thy feet.

      Haste, for our hearts are with thee, take no rest!

       Loud-voiced ambassador, from sea to sea

       Proclaim the blessing, manifold, confessed.

       Of those in darkness by her hand set free.

      Then very softly to her presence move,

       And whisper: "Lady, lo, they know and love!"

A Ballad of Jakko Hill

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      One moment bid the horses wait,

       Since tiffin is not laid till three,

       Below the upward path and straight

       You climbed a year ago with me.

      Love came upon us suddenly

       And loosed—an idle hour to kill—

       A headless, armless armory

       That smote us both on Jakko Hill.

      Ah Heaven! we would wait and wait

       Through Time and to Eternity!

       Ah Heaven! we could conquer Fate

       With more than Godlike constancy

       I cut the date upon a tree—

       Here stand the clumsy figures still:

       "10-7-85, A.D."

       Damp with the mist of Jakko Hill.

      What