THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST

THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat ;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth !

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side,

And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride.

He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and day

And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.

Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides

“ Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides? “

Then up and spoke Mohammed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar :

“ If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.

“ At dusk he harries the Abazai - at dawn he is into Bonair,

“ But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare.

“ So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,

“ By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.

“ But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,

“ For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.

“ There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,

“ And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen. “

The Colonel's son has taken horse, and a raw rough dun was he,

With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of a gallows-tree.

The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat

Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.

He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,

Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,

Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,

And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the Pistol crack.

He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.

“ Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “ Show now if ye can ride ! “

It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go

The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.

The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,

But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.

There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,

snick tho' never a man was seen.

They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,

The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.

The dun he fell at a water-course - in a woeful heap fell he,

And Kamal. has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.

He has knocked the pistol out of his hand - small room was there to strive,

“ 'T was only by favour of mine," quoth he, “ ye rode so long alive :

“ There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,

“ But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.

“ If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,

“ The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row.

“ If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,

“ The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.”

Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast,

“ But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.

“ If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away.

“ Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.

“ They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain.

“ The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
“ But if thou thinkest the price be fair - thy brethren wait to sup,

“ The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn - howl, dog, and call them up !

“ And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,

“ Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back ! “

Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.

“ No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and grey wolf meet.

“ May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;

“ What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death ? “

Lightly answered the Colonel's son : “ I hold by the blood of my clan:

“ Take up the mare for my father's gift - by God, she has carried a man ! “

The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast;

“ We be two strong men," said Kamal then, " but she loveth the younger best.

“ So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,

“ My 'broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrup twain. “

The Colonel's son a pistol drew, and held it muzzle-end,

“ Ye have taken the one from a foe, “ said he. “ Will ye take the mate from a friend ? “

“ A gift for a gift, “ said Kamal straight ; “ a limb for the risk of a limb.

“ Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him ! “

With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest

He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.

“ Now here is thy master, “ Kamal said, “ who leads a troop of the Guides,

“ And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.

“ Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,

“ Thy life is his - thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.

“ So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,

“ And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line.

“ And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power

“ Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur ! “

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault.

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,

On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.

The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,

And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.

And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear

There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.

“ Ha' done! ha' done ! “ said the Colonel's son. “ Put up the steel at your sides !

“ Last night ye had struck at a Border thief - to-night 't is a man of the Guides ! “

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face though they come from the ends of the earth !

                                        Rudyard Kipling   1889

THE TYGER

THE TYGER

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry ?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes ?

On what wings dare he aspire ?

What the hand dare seize the fire ?

And what shoulder and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart ?

And, when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand and what dread feet ?

What the hammer ? What the chain ?

In what furnace was thy brain ?

What the anvil ? What dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp ?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And water’d heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see ?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee ?

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ?

                                           William Blake 1794

WALDEN - CHAPTER ONE - ECONOMY

WALDEN - CHAPTER ONE - ECONOMY

Men say they know many things ;

But lo ! They have taken wings, -

The arts and sciences,

And a thousand appliances :

The wind that blows

Is all that anybody knows.

                              Henry David Thoreau 1854

SONNET 116

SONNET 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments, love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no! It is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand’ring bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come,

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom:

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

                                       William Shakespeare

IF

IF

IF you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: “ Hold on !”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son !

                                                   Rudyard Kipling

GUNGA DIN

GUNGA DIN

You may talk o’ gin and beer

When you’re quartered safe out ‘ere,

An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;

But when it comes to slaughter

You will do your work on water,

An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ‘im that’s got it.

Now in Injia’s sunny clime,

Where I used to spend my time

A-servin’ of ‘Er Majesty the Queen,

Of all them blackfaced crew

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

He was “ Din ! Din ! Din !

“ You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din !

“ Hi ! Slippy hitherao !

“ Water, get it ! Panee lao,

“ You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”

The uniform ‘e wore

Was nothin’ much before,

An’ rather less than ‘arf o’ that be’ind,

For a piece o’ twisty rag

An’ a goatskin water-bag

Was all the field-equipment ‘e could find.

When the sweatin’ troop-train lay

In a sidin’ through the day,

Where the ‘eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,

We shouted “ Harry By “

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped ‘im ‘cause ‘e couldn’t serve us all.

It was “ Din ! Din ! Din !

“ You ‘eathen, where the mischief ‘ave you been ?

“ you put some juldee in it

“ Or I’ll marrow you this minute

“ If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din.

‘E would dot an’ carry one

Till the longest day was done;

An’ ‘e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin’ nut,

‘E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.

With ‘is mussick on ‘is back,

‘E would skip with our attack,

An’ watch us till the bugles made “ Retire, “

An’ for all ‘is dirty ‘ide

‘E was white, clear white, inside

When ‘e went to tend the wounded under fire !

It was “ Din 1 Din ! Din ! “

With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.

When the cartridges ran out,

You could hear the front-ranks shout,

“ Hi ! Ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din ! “

I shan’t forgit the night

When I dropped be’ind the fight

With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‘a’ been.

I was chokin’ mad with thirst,

An’ the man that spied me first

Was our good grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.

‘E lifted up my ‘ead,

An’ he plugged me where I bled,

An’ ‘e guv me ‘arf-a-pint o’ water green.

It was crawlin’ and it stunk,

But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,

I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was “ Din ! Din ! Din !

“ Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ‘is spleen;

“ ‘E’s chawin’ up the ground,

“ An’ ‘e’s kickin’ all around:

“ For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din ! “

‘E carried me away

To where a dooli lay,

An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.

‘E put me safe inside,

An’ just before ‘e died,

“ I ‘ope you liked your drink, “ sez Gunga Din.

So I’ll meet ‘im later on

At the place where ‘e is gone-

Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.

‘E’ll be squattin’ on the coals

Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,

An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din !

Yes, Din ! Din ! Din !

You Lazarushian-Leather Gunga Din !

Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,

By the livin’ Gawd that made you,

You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din !

                                            Rudyard Kipling

THE BETROTHED

THE BETROTHED

“ You must choose between me and your cigar “

Breach of Promise case, circa 1885

Open the old cigar-box,

get me a Cuba stout,

for things are running crossways,

and Maggie and I are out.

We quarreled about Havanas-

we fought o’er a good cheroot,

and I know she is exacting,

and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box-

let me consider a space;

in the soft blue veil of the vapor

musing on Maggie’s face.

Maggie is pretty to look at-

Maggie’s a loving lass,

but the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle,

the truest of loves must pass.

There’s peace in a Larranaga,

there’s calm in a Henry Clay;

but the beast cigar in an hour

is finished and thrown away-

Thrown away for another

as perfect and ripe and brown-

but I could not throw away Maggie

for fear o’ the talk o’ the town !

Maggie my wife at fifty-

grey and dour and old-

with never another Maggie

to purchase for love or gold !

And the light of the days that have Been

and the dark of the Days that Are,

and love’s torch stinking and stale,

like the butt of a dead cigar-

The butt of a dead cigar

you are bound to keep in your pocket-

with never a new one to light

tho’ it’s charred and black to the socket.

Open the old cigar-box

let me consider a while.

Here is a mild Manila-

there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion-

bondage bought with a ring,

or a harem of dusky beauties,

fifty tied in a string ?

Counsellors cunning and silent-

comforters true and tried,

and never a one of the fifty

to sneer at a rival bride !

Thought in the early morning,

solace in time of woes,

peace in the hush of the twilight,

balm ere my eyelids close.

This will the fifty give me,

asking nought in return,

with only a suttee’s passion-

to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me,

when they are spent and dead,

five times other fifties

shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off java,

the isles of the Spanish Main,

when they hear my harem is empty

will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment,

nor food for their mouth’s withal,

so long as the gulls are nesting,

so long as the showers fall.

I will scent ‘em with best vanilla,

with tea will I temper their hides,

and the Moor and the Mormon shall envy,

who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter,

to give me my choice between

the wee little whimpering Love

and the great god Nick o’ Teen.

And I have been servant of Love

for barely a twelvemonth clear,

but I have been Priest of Cabanas

a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days

is flecked with the cheery light

of stumps that I burned to friendships

and pleasure and work and fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future

that Maggie and I must prove,

but the only light on the marshes

is the Will-o’-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey

or leave me bogged in the mire ?

Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it,

shall I follow the fitful fire ?

Open the old cigar-box-

let me consider anew-

old friends, and who is Maggie

that I should abandon you ?

A million surplus Maggies

are willing to bear the yoke;

and a women is only a women,

but a good Cigar is a Smoke !

Light me another Cuba-

I hold to my first-sworn vows.

If Maggie will have no rival,

I’ll have no Maggie for Spouse !

                                       Rudyard Kipling

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first

 on Eden’s green and gold,

Our father Adam sat under the Tree

and scratched with a stick in the mold;

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen

was joy to his mighty heart,

Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves,

“ It’s pretty, but is it Art ? “

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled

to fashion his work anew-

The first of his race who cared a fig

for the first, most dread review;

And he left his lore to the use of his sons-

and that was a glorious gain

When the Devil chuckled “ Is it Art ? “

in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky

and wrench the stars apart,

Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks:

“ It’s striking, but is it Art ? “

The stone was dropped at the quarry-side

and the idle derrick swung,

While each man talked of the aims of Art,

and each in an alien tongue.

The fought and they talked
 in the North and the South;

they talked and fought in the West,

Till the waters rose on the pitiful land

and the poor Red Clay had rest-

Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn

when the Dove was preened to start,

And the Devil bubbled below the keel:

“ It’s human, but is it Art ? “

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree-

and new as the new-cut tooth-

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows

he is master of Art and Truth;

And each man hears as the twilight nears,

to the beat of his dying heart,

The Devil drum on the darkened pane:

“ You did it but was it Art ? “

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree-

to the shape of a surplice-peg,

We have learned to bottle our parents twain

in the yelk of an addled egg,

We know that the tail must wag the dog,

for the horse is drawn by the cart;

But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old:

“ It’s clever, but is it Art ? “

When the flicker of London sun falls faint

on the Club-room’s green and gold,

The son’s of Adam sit them down

and scratch with their pens in the mold-

They scratch with their pens
 in the mold of their graves,

and the ink and the anguish start,

For the Devil mutters behind the leaves:

“ It’s pretty, but is it Art ? “

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree

where the Four Great Rivers flow,

And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf

as she left it long ago,

And if we could come when the sentry slept

and softly scurry through,

By the favor of God we might know as much-

as our father Adam knew !

                                               Rudyard Kipling 1890

THE VAMPIRE

THE VAMPIRE

A fool there was and he made his prayer

( even as you and I )

To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair

( we called her the woman who did not care )

But the fool he called her his lady fair-

( even as you and I )

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste

And the work of our head and hand

Belong to the woman who did not know

( And now we know that she never could know )

And did not understand !

A fool there was and his goods he spent

( Even as you and I )

Honor and faith and a sure intent

( And it wasn’t the least what the lady meant )

But a fool must follow his natural bent

( Even as you and I )

Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost

And the excellent things we planned

Belong to the woman who didn’t know why

( And now we know that she never knew why )

And did not understand !

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide

( Even as you and I )

Which she might have seen when she threw him aside-

( But it isn’t on record the lady tried )

So some of him lived but the most of him died-

( Even as you and I )

And it isn’t the shame and it isn’t the blame

That stings like a white hot brand-

It’s coming to know that she never knew why

( Seeing, at last, she could never know why )

And never could understand !

                                                    Rudyard Kipling 1897

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

Gather ye rosebuds while you may,

Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he’s a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times will succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry:

For having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry.

                                             Robert Herrick 1591-1674