Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1021 page)

Dinah in Heaven

“The Woman in His Life”
From “Limits and Renewals” (1932)
She did not know that she was dead,
  But, when the pang was o’er,
Sat down to wait her Master’s tread
  Upon the Golden Floor,

With ears full-cock and anxious eye
  Impatiently resigned;
But ignorant that Paradise
  Did not admit her kind.

Persons with Haloes, Harps, and Wings
  Assembled and reproved;
Or talked to her of Heavenly things,
  But Dinah never moved.

There was one step along the Stair
  That led to Heaven’s Gate;
And, till she heard it, her affair
  Was — she explained — to wait.

And she explained with flattened ear,
  Bared lip and milky tooth —
Storming against Ithuriel’s Spear
  That only proved her truth!

Sudden — far down the Bridge of Ghosts
  That anxious spirits clomb —
She caught that step in all the hosts,
  And knew that he had come.

She left them wondering what to do,
  But not a doubt had she.
Swifter than her own squeal she flew
  Across the Glassy Sea;

Flushing the Cherubs every where,
  And skidding as she ran,
She refuged under Peter’s Chair
  And waited for her man.

.     .     .     .     .     .     .      

There spoke a Spirit out of the press,
  ‘Said: — ”Have you any here
That saved a fool from drunkenness,
  And a coward from his fear?

“That turned a soul from dark to day
  When other help was vain;
That snatched it from Wanhope and made
  A cur a man again?”

“Enter and look,” said Peter then,
  And set The Gate ajar.
“If  know aught of women and men
  I trow she is not far.”

“Neither by virtue, speech nor art
  Nor hope of grace to win;
But godless innocence of heart
  That never heard of sin:

“Neither by beauty nor belief
  Nor white example shown.
Something a wanton — more a thief —
  But — most of all — mine own.”

“Enter and look,” said Peter then,
  “And send you well to speed;
But, for all that I know of women and men
  Your riddle is hard to read.”

Then flew Dinah from under the Chair,
  Into his arms she flew —
And licked his face from chin to hair
  And Peter passed them through!

Dirge of Dead Sisters

1902
For the Nurses Who Died in the South African War
Who recalls the twilight and the ranged tents in order
   (Violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air?)
And the clink of iron teacups and the piteous, noble laughter,
   And the faces of the Sisters with the dust upon their hair?

(Now and not hereafter, while the breath is in our nostrils,
   Now and not hereafter, ere the meaner years go by -
Let us now remember many honourable women,
   Such as bade us turn again when we were like to die.)

Who recalls the morning and the thunder through the foothills,
   (Tufts of fleecy shrapnel strung along the empty plains?)
And the sun-scarred Red-Cross coaches creeping guarded to the culvert,
   And the faces of the Sisters looking gravely from the trains?

(When the days were torment and the nights were clouded terror,
   When the Powers of Darkness had dominion on our soul -
When we fled consuming through the Seven Hells of Fever,
   These put out their hands to us and healed and made us whole.)

Who recalls the midnight by the bridge’s wrecked abutment,
   (Autumn rain that rattled like a Maxim on the tin?)
And the lightning-dazzled levels and the streaming, straining wagons,
   And the faces of the Sisters as they bore the wounded in?

(Till the pain was merciful and stunned us into silence -
   When each nerve cried out on God that made the misused clay;
When the Body triumphed and the last poor shame departed -
   These abode our agonies and wiped the sweat away.)

Who recalls the noontide and the funerals through the market,
   (Blanket-hidden bodies, flagless, followed by the flies?)
And the footsore firing-party, and the dust and stench and staleness,
   And the faces of the Sisters and the glory in their eyes?

(Bold behind the battle, in the open camp all-hallowed,
   Patient, wise, and mirthful in the ringed and reeking town,
These endured unresting till they rested from their labours -
   Little wasted bodies, ah, so light to lower down!)

Yet their graves are scattered and their names are clean forgotten,
   Earth shall not remember, but the Waiting Angel knows
Them who died at Uitvlugt when the plague was on the city -
   Her that fell at Simon’s Town’ in service on our foes.

The Disciple

“The Church that Was at Antioch”
From “Limits and Renewals” (1932)
He that hath a Gospel
  To loose upon Mankind,
Though he serve it utterly —
  Body, soul and mind —
Though he go to Calvary
  Daily for its gain —
It is His Disciple
  Shall make his labour vain.

He that hath a Gospel
  For all earth to own —
Though he etch it on the steel,
  Or carve it on the stone —
Not to be misdoubted
  Through the after-days —
It is His Disciple
  Shall read it many ways.

It is His Disciple
  (Ere Those Bones are dust )
Who shall change the Charter,
  Who shall split the Trust —
Amplify distinctions,
  Rationalize the Claim;
Preaching that the Master
  Would have done the same.

It is His Disciple
  Who shall tell us how
Much the Master would have scrapped
  Had he lived till now —
What he would have modified
  Of what he said before.
It is His Disciple
  Shall do this and more....

He that hath a Gospel
  Whereby Heaven is won
(Carpenter, or cameleer,
  Or Maya’s dreaming son),
Many swords shall pierce Him,
  Mingling blood with gall;
But His Own Disciple
  Shall wound Him worst of all!

Divided Destinies

It was an artless
Bandar
, and he danced upon a pine,
And much I wondered how he lived, and where the beast might dine,
And many many other things, till, o’er my morning smoke,
I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamt that
Bandar
spoke.

He said: “O man of many clothes! Sad crawler on the Hills!
Observe, I know not Ranken’s shop, nor Ranken’s monthly bills!
I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you call dress;
Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks at Mess.

“I steal the bunnia’s grain at morn, at noon and eventide,
(For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountain side,
I follow no man’s carriage, and no, never in my life
Have I flirted at Peliti’s with another
Bandar
’s wife.

“O man of futile fopperies — unnecessary wraps;
I own no ponies in the hills, I drive no tall-wheeled traps.
I buy me not twelve-button gloves, ‘short-sixes’ eke, or rings,
Nor do I waste at Hamilton’s my wealth on ‘pretty things.’

“I quarrel with my wife at home, we never fight abroad;
But Mrs. B. has grasped the fact I
am
her only lord.
I never heard of fever — dumps nor debts depress my soul;
And I pity and despise you!” Here he pouched my breakfast-roll.

His hide was very mangy and his face was very red,
And ever and anon he scratched with energy his head.
His manners were not always nice, but how my spirit cried
To be an artless
Bandar
loose upon the mountain side!

So I answered: — “Gentle
Bandar
, and inscrutable Decree
Makes thee a gleesome fleasome Thou, and me a wretched Me.
Go! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid the pine;
Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot for thine.”

Doctors

1923

Man dies too soon, beside his works half-planned.
  His days are counted and reprieve is vain:
Who shall entreat with Death to stay his hand;
  Or cloke the shameful nakedness of pain?

Send here the bold, the seekers of the way —
  The passionless, the unshakeable of soul,
Who serve the inmost mysteries of man’s clay,
  And ask no more than leave to make them whole.

The Dove of Dacca

1892

The freed dove flew to the Rajah’s tower —
  Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings —
And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur,
  Dove — dove — oh, homing dove!
Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings!

The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall;
  He set in his bosom a dove of flight —
“If she return, be sure that I fall.”
  Dove — dove — oh, homing dove!
Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight.

“Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep —
  Leave to the foeman no spoil at all.
In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep
  If the dove — if the dove — if the homing dove
Come, and alone, to the palace wall.”

The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad —
  The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all.
Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,
  And the dove — the dove — oh, the homing dove!
She thought of her cote on the palace-wall.

She opened her wings and she flew away —
  Fluttered away beyond recall;
She came to the palace at break of day.
  Dove — dove — oh, homing dove,
Flying so fast for a kingdom’s fall!

The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame
  Slept in the flame of the palace old —
To save their honour from Moslem shame.
  And the dove — the dove — oh, the homing dove,
She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled!

The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet,
  Followed as fast as a horse could fly,
He came and the palace was black at his feet;
  And the dove — the dove — the homing dove,
Circled alone in the stainless sky.

So the dove flew to the Rajah’s tower —
  Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings;
So the thorns covered the city of Gaur,
  And Dacca was lost for a white dove’s wings.
Dove — dove — oh, homing dove,
  Dacca is lost from the Roll of the Kings!

The Dutch in the Medway

1664-72
If wars were won by feasting,
  0r victory by song,
Or safety found in sleeping sound,
  How England would be strong!
But honour and dominion
  Are not maintained so.
They’re only got by sword and shot,
 
And this the Dutchmen know!

The moneys that should feed us
  You spend on your delight,
How can you then have sailor-men
  To aid you in your fight?
Our fish and cheese are rotten,
  Which makes the scurvy grow —
We cannot serve you if we starve,
 
And this the Dutchmen now!

Our ships in every harbour
  Be neither whole nor sound,
And, when we seek to mend a leak,
  No oakum can be found;
Or, if it is, the caulkers,
  And carpenters also,
For lack of pay have gone away,
 
And this the Dutchmen know!

Mere powder, guns, and bullets,
  We scarce can get at all;
Their price was spent in merriment
  And revel at Whitehall,
While we in tattered doublets
  From ship to ship must row,
Beseeching friends for odds and ends —
  
And this the Dutchmen know!

No King will heed our warnings,
  No Court will pay our claims —
Our King and Court for their disport
  Do sell the very Thames!
For, now De Ruyter’s topsails
  Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet —
 
And this the Dutchmen know!

The Dying Chauffeur

Adam Lindsay Gordon
 — The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)
Wheel me gently to the garage, since my car and I must part —
  No more for me the record and the run.
That cursed left-hand cylinder the doctors call my heart
  Is pinking past redemption — I am done!

They’ll never strike a mixture that’ll help me pull my load.
  My gears are stripped — I cannot set my brakes.
I am entered for the finals down the timeless untimed Road
  To the Maker of the makers of all makes!

The Dykes

1902
We have no heart for the fishing – we have no hand for the oar –
All that our fathers taught us of old pleases us no more.
All that our own hearts bid us believe we doubt where we do not deny –
There is nor proof in the bread we eat nor rest in the toil we ply.