The Ballad of East and West
by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

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, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!

Kamalis 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 the 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 Mahommed 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 passed 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 a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, and the head of the 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,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt 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,
“‘Twas 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 stirrups 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 ’tis a man of the Guides!”

Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the two 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, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth.

Views: 7

Miniver Cheevy
by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
      Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
      And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
      When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
      Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,
      And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
      And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
      That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
      And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,
      Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
      Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace
      And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the medieval grace
      Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
      But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
      And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
      Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
      And kept on drinking.

Views: 6

“She dwelt among the untrodden ways”
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
      Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise,
      And very few to love.

A Violet by a mossy stone
      Half-hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
      Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
      When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her Grave, and, oh,
      The difference to me!

Views: 7

“The Time Draws Near the Birth of Christ”
(Canto XXVIII of In Memoriam)
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

The time draws near the birth of Christ:
      The moon is hid; the night is still;
      The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,
      From far and near, on mead and moor,
      Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind,
      That now dilate, and now decrease,
      Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

This year I slept and woke with pain,
      I almost wish’d no more to wake,
      And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those bells again:

But they my troubled spirit rule,
      For they controll’d me when a boy;
      They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy,
The merry merry bells of Yule.

Views: 4

Die Wanderratten
by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)

Es gibt zwei Sorten Ratten:
Die hungrigen und satten.
Die satten bleiben vergnügt zu Haus,
Die hungrigen aber wandern aus.

Sie wandern viel tausend Meilen,
Ganz ohne Rasten und Weilen,
Gradaus in ihrem grimmigen Lauf,
Nicht Wind noch Wetter hält sie auf.

Sie klimmen wohl über die Höhen,
Sie schwimmen wohl durch die Seen;
Gar manche ersäuft oder bricht das Genick,
Die lebenden lassen die toten zurück.

Es haben diese Käuze
Gar fürchterliche Schnäuze;
Sie tragen die Köpfe geschoren egal,
Ganz radikal, ganz rattenkahl.

Die radikale Rotte
Weiß nichts von einem Gotte.
Sie lassen nicht taufen ihre Brut,
Die Weiber sind Gemeindegut.

Der sinnliche Rattenhaufen,
Er will nur fressen und saufen,
Er denkt nicht, während er säuft und frißt,
Daß unsre Seele unsterblich ist.

So eine wilde Ratze,
Die fürchtet nicht Hölle, nicht Katze;
Sie hat kein Gut, sie hat kein Geld
Und wünscht aufs neue zu teilen die Welt.

Die Wanderratten, o wehe!
Sie sind schon in der Nähe.
Sie rücken heran, ich höre schon
Ihr Pfeifen – die Zahl ist Legion.

O wehe! wir sind verloren,
Sie sind schon vor den Toren!
Der Bürgermeister und Senat,
Sie schütteln die Köpfe, und keiner weiß Rat.

Die Bürgerschaft greift zu den Waffen,
Die Glocken läuten die Pfaffen.
Gefährdet ist das Palladium
Des sittlichen Staats, das Eigentum.

Nicht Glockengeläute, nicht Pfaffengebete,
Nicht hochwohlweise Senatsdekrete,
Auch nicht Kanonen, viel Hundertpfünder,
Sie helfen Euch heute, Ihr lieben Kinder!

Heut helfen Euch nicht die Wortgespinste
Der abgelebten Redekünste.
Man fängt nicht Ratten mit Syllogismen,
Sie springen über die feinsten Sophismen.

Im hungrigen Magen Eingang finden
Nur Suppenlogik mit Knödelgründen,
Nur Argumente von Rinderbraten,
Begleitet mit Göttinger Wurst-Zitaten.

Ein schweigender Stockfisch, in Butter gesotten,
Behaget den radikalen Rotten
Viel besser als ein Mirabeau
Und alle Redner seit Cicero.

Views: 6

A une damoyselle malade
by Clément Marot (1496-1544)

Ma Mignonne
Je vous donne
Le bon jour.
Le sejour
C’est prison:
Guerison
Recouvrez,
Puis ouvrez
Vostre porte,
Et qu’on sorte
Vistement:
Car Clement
Le vous mande.
Va friande
De ta bouche,
Qui se couche
En danger
Pour manger
Confitures:
Si tu dures
Trop malade,
Couleur fade
Tu prendras,
Et perdras
L’embonpoint.
Dieu te doint
Santé bonne
Ma Mignonne.

Views: 5

Stanzas on Freedom
by Lord Byron (1788-1824)
because today is World Freedom Day

When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
      Let him combat for that of his neighbours;
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
      And get knocked on the head for his labours.

To do good to Mankind is the chivalrous plan,
      And is always as nobly requited;
Then battle for Freedom wherever you can,
      And, if not shot or hanged, you’ll get knighted.

Views: 5

Ilicet
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

There is an end of joy and sorrow;
Peace all day long, all night, all morrow,
      But never a time to laugh or weep.
The end is come of pleasant places,
The end of tender words and faces,
      The end of all, the poppied sleep.

No place for sound within their hearing,
No room to hope, no time for fearing,
      No lips to laugh, no lids for tears.
The old years have run out all their measure;
No chance of pain, no chance of pleasure,
      No fragment of the broken years.

Outside of all the worlds and ages,
There where the fool is as the sage is,
      There where the slayer is clean of blood,
No end, no passage, no beginning,
There where the sinner leaves off sinning,
      There where the good man is not good.

There is not one thing with another,
But Evil saith to Good: My brother,
      My brother, I am one with thee:
They shall not strive nor cry for ever:
No man shall choose between them: never
      Shall this thing end and that thing be.

Wind wherein seas and stars are shaken
Shall shake them, and they shall not waken;
      None that has lain down shall arise;
The stones are sealed across their places;
One shadow is shed on all their faces,
      One blindness cast on all their eyes.

Sleep, is it sleep perchance that covers
Each face, as each face were his lover’s?
      Farewell; as men that sleep fare well.
The grave’s mouth laughs unto derision
Desire and dread and dream and vision,
      Delight of heaven and sorrow of hell.

No soul shall tell nor lip shall number
The names and tribes of you that slumber;
      No memory, no memorial.
“Thou knowest”—who shall say thou knowest?
There is none highest and none lowest:
      An end, an end, an end of all.

Good night, good sleep, good rest from sorrow
To these that shall not have good morrow;
      The gods be gentle to all these.
Nay, if death be not, how shall they be?
Nay, is there help in heaven? it may be
      All things and lords of things shall cease.

The stooped urn, filling, dips and flashes;
The bronzèd brims are deep in ashes;
      The pale old lips of death are fed.
Shall this dust gather flesh hereafter?
Shall one shed tears or fall to laughter,
      At sight of all these poor old dead?

Nay, as thou wilt; these know not of it;
Thine eyes’ strong weeping shall not profit,
      Thy laughter shall not give thee ease;
Cry aloud, spare not, cease not crying,
Sigh, till thou cleave thy sides with sighing,
      Thou shalt not raise up one of these.

Burnt spices flash, and burnt wine hisses,
      The breathing flame’s mouth curls and kisses
The small dried rows of frankincense;
All round the sad red blossoms smoulder,
Flowers coloured like the fire, but colder,
      In sign of sweet things taken hence;

Yea, for their sake and in death’s favour
Things of sweet shape and of sweet savour
      We yield them, spice and flower and wine;
Yea, costlier things than wine or spices,
Whereof none knoweth how great the price is,
      And fruit that comes not of the vine.

From boy’s pierced throat and girl’s pierced bosom
Drips, reddening round the blood-red blossom,
      The slow delicious bright soft blood,
Bathing the spices and the pyre,
Bathing the flowers and fallen fire,
      Bathing the blossom by the bud.

Roses whose lips the flame has deadened
Drink till the lapping leaves are reddened
      And warm wet inner petals weep;
The flower whereof sick sleep gets leisure,
Barren of balm and purple pleasure,
      Fumes with no native steam of sleep.

Why will ye weep? what do ye weeping?
For waking folk and people sleeping,
      And sands that fill and sands that fall,
The days rose-red, the poppied hours,
Blood, wine, and spice and fire and flowers,
      There is one end of one and all.

Shall such an one lend love or borrow?
Shall these be sorry for thy sorrow?
      Shall these give thanks for words or breath?
Their hate is as their loving-kindness;
The frontlet of their brows is blindness,
      The armlet of their arms is death.

Lo, for no noise or light of thunder
Shall these grave-clothes be rent in sunder;
      He that hath taken, shall he give?
He hath rent them: shall he bind together?
He hath bound them: shall he break the tether?
      He hath slain them: shall he bid them live?

A little sorrow, a little pleasure,
Fate metes us from the dusty measure
      That holds the date of all of us;
We are born with travail and strong crying,
And from the birth-day to the dying
      The likeness of our life is thus.

One girds himself to serve another,
Whose father was the dust, whose mother
      The little dead red worm therein;
They find no fruit of things they cherish;
The goodness of a man shall perish,
      It shall be one thing with his sin.

In deep wet ways by grey old gardens
Fed with sharp spring the sweet fruit hardens;
      They know not what fruits wane or grow;
Red summer burns to the utmost ember;
They know not, neither can remember,
      The old years and flowers they used to know.

Ah, for their sakes, so trapped and taken,
For theirs, forgotten and forsaken,
      Watch, sleep not, gird thyself with prayer.
Nay, where the heart of wrath is broken,
Where long love ends as a thing spoken,
      How shall thy crying enter there?

Though the iron sides of the old world falter,
The likeness of them shall not alter
      For all the rumour of periods,
The stars and seasons that come after,
The tears of latter men, the laughter
      Of the old unalterable gods.

Far up above the years and nations,
The high gods, clothed and crowned with patience,
      Endure through days of deathlike date;
They bear the witness of things hidden;
Before their eyes all life stands chidden,
      As they before the eyes of Fate.

Not for their love shall Fate retire,
Nor they relent for our desire,
      Nor the graves open for their call.
The end is more than joy and anguish,
Than lives that laugh and lives that languish,
      The poppied sleep, the end of all.

Views: 6

Stanzas on the Death of Wyatt
by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1516-1547)

Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest:
Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain;
And virtue sank the deeper in his breast:
Such profit he by envy could obtain.
A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame;
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain,
As on a stithe, where that some work of fame
Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain’s gain.
A visage stern, and mild; where both did grow
Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice:
Amid great storms, whom grace assured so,
To live upright, and smile at fortune’s choice.
A hand, that taught what might be said in rhyme;
That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit.
A mark, the which (unperfected for time)
Some may approach, but never none shall hit.
A tongue that serv’d in foreign realms his king;
Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame
Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring
Our English youth by travail unto fame.
An eye, whose judgment none effect could blind,
Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile;
Whose piercing look did represent a mind
With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile.
A heart, where dread was never so imprest
To hide the thought that might the truth advance;
In neither fortune loft, nor yet represt,
To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance.
A valiant corpse, where force and beauty met:
Happy, alas! too happy, but for foes,
Lived, and ran the race that nature set;
Of manhood’s shape, where she the mould did lose.
But to the heavens that simple soul is fled,
Which left, with such as covet Christ to know,
Witness of faith, that never shall be dead;
Sent for our health, but not received so.
Thus for our guilt this jewel have we lost;
The earth his bones, the heaven possess his ghost.

Views: 7

Thorp Green
by Branwell Brontë (1817-1848)

I sit, this evening, far away,
      From all I used to know,
And nought reminds my soul to-day
      Of happy long ago.

Unwelcome cares, unthought-of fears,
      Around my room arise;
I seek for suns of former years
      But clouds o’ercast my skies.

Yes–Memory, wherefore does thy voice
      Bring old times back to view,
As thou wouldst bid me not rejoice
      In thoughts and prospects new?

I’ll thank thee, Memory, in the hour
      When troubled thoughts are mine–
For thou, like suns in April’s shower,
      On shadowy scenes wilt shine.

I’ll thank thee when approaching death
      Would quench life’s feeble ember,
For thou wouldst even renew my breath
      With thy sweet word ‘Remember’!

Views: 3