The way through the woods

Source: Favim

They shut the road through the woods

Seventy years ago. 

Weather and rain have undone it again, 

And now you would never know 

There was once a road through the woods 

Before they planted the trees. 

It is underneath the coppice and heath, 

And the thin anemones.

Only the keeper sees 

That, where the ring-dove broods,

And the badgers roll at ease, 

There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods 

Of a summer evening late, 

When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools 

Where the otter whistles his mate, 

(They fear not men in the woods, 

Because they see so few.) 

You will hear the beat of a horse's feet, 

And the swish of a skirt in the dew, 

Steadily cantering through 

The misty solitudes, 

As though they perfectly knew 

The old lost road through the woods.

But there is no road through the woods.

~ Rudyard Kipling

I keep six honest serving-men

Source: Favim

I keep six honest serving-men:

    (They taught me all I knew)

Their names are What and Where and When

    And How and Why and Who.

I send them over land and sea,

    I send them east and west;

But after they have worked for me,

    I give them all a rest.

I let them rest from nine till five.

    For I am busy then,

As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,

    For they are hungry men:

But different folk have different views:

    I know a person small--

She keeps ten million serving-men,

    Who get no rest at all!

She sends 'em abroad on her own affairs,

    From the second she opens her eyes--

One million Hows, two million Wheres,

    And seven million Whys!

~ Rudyard Kipling

I keep six honest serving-men

Source: Favim

I keep six honest serving-men:

    (They taught me all I knew)

Their names are What and Where and When

    And How and Why and Who.

I send them over land and sea,

    I send them east and west;

But after they have worked for me,

    I give them all a rest.

I let them rest from nine till five.

    For I am busy then,

As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,

    For they are hungry men:

But different folk have different views:

    I know a person small--

She keeps ten million serving-men,

    Who get no rest at all!

She sends 'em abroad on her own affairs,

    From the second she opens her eyes--

One million Hows, two million Wheres,

    And seven million Whys!

~ Rudyard Kipling

The Conundrum of the Workshops

When the flush of a newborn 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 by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,   

While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.   

   

They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,

Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—   

Had rest till the 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 old as the Eden Tree—as 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 yolk of an addled egg,   

We know that the tail must wag the dog, as 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’s sun falls faint on the club-room’s green and gold,  

The sons 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   

When 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

The Conundrum of the Workshops

When the flush of a newborn 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 by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,   

While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.   

   

They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,

Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—   

Had rest till the 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 old as the Eden Tree—as 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 yolk of an addled egg,   

We know that the tail must wag the dog, as 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’s sun falls faint on the club-room’s green and gold,  

The sons 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   

When 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

Christmas in India

Pic courtesy: http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2005/2077712791_72911462aa.jpg 

Dim dawn behind the tamarisks--the sky is saffron-yellow--
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.

Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
Oh the clammy fog that hovers o'er the earth;
And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry--
What part have India's exiles in their mirth?

Full day behind the tamarisks--the sky is blue and staring--
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.

Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly--
Call on Rama--he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And today we bid "good Christian men rejoice!"

High noon behind the tamarisks--the sun is hot above us--
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner--those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!

Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
Youth was cheap--wherefore we sold it.
Gold was good--we hoped to hold it,
And today we know the fulness of our gain.

Grey dusk behind the tamarisks--the parrots fly together--
As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
That drags us back howe'er so far we roam.

Hard her service, poor her payment--she is ancient, tattered raiment--
India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter,
The door is shut--we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks--the owls begin their chorus--
As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,
Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!

Call a truce, then, to our labors--let us feast with friends and
neighbors,
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

~ Rudyard Kipling

___________________________________________________

In the old days, it was not called the Holiday Season; the Christians called it 'Christmas' and went to church; the Jews called it 'Hanukkah' and went to synagogue; the atheists went to parties and drank. People passing each other on the street would say 'Merry Christmas!' or 'Happy Hanukkah!' or (to the atheists) 'Look out for the wall!' 

 ~ Dave Barry, "Christmas Shopping: A Survivor's Guide"

Christmas in India

Pic courtesy: http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2005/2077712791_72911462aa.jpg 

Dim dawn behind the tamarisks--the sky is saffron-yellow--
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.

Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
Oh the clammy fog that hovers o'er the earth;
And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry--
What part have India's exiles in their mirth?

Full day behind the tamarisks--the sky is blue and staring--
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.

Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly--
Call on Rama--he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And today we bid "good Christian men rejoice!"

High noon behind the tamarisks--the sun is hot above us--
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner--those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!

Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
Youth was cheap--wherefore we sold it.
Gold was good--we hoped to hold it,
And today we know the fulness of our gain.

Grey dusk behind the tamarisks--the parrots fly together--
As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
That drags us back howe'er so far we roam.

Hard her service, poor her payment--she is ancient, tattered raiment--
India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter,
The door is shut--we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks--the owls begin their chorus--
As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,
Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!

Call a truce, then, to our labors--let us feast with friends and
neighbors,
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

~ Rudyard Kipling

___________________________________________________

In the old days, it was not called the Holiday Season; the Christians called it 'Christmas' and went to church; the Jews called it 'Hanukkah' and went to synagogue; the atheists went to parties and drank. People passing each other on the street would say 'Merry Christmas!' or 'Happy Hanukkah!' or (to the atheists) 'Look out for the wall!' 

 ~ Dave Barry, "Christmas Shopping: A Survivor's Guide"

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

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