John Keats – To…

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,

Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well

Would passion arm me for the enterprise:

But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;

No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;

I am no happy shepherd of the dell

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.

Yet must I dote upon thee,—call thee sweet,

Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses

When steeped in dew rich to intoxication.

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,

And when the moon her pallid face discloses,

I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

Rudyard Kipling – The Bell Buoy

They christened my brother of old—

   And a saintly name he bears—

They gave him his place to hold

   At the head of the belfry-stairs,

   Where the minster-towers stand

And the breeding kestrels cry.

   Would I change with my brother a league inland?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I !

In the flush of the hot June prime,

   O’er sleek flood-tides afire,

I hear him hurry the chime

   To the bidding of checked Desire;

   Till the sweated ringers tire

And the wild bob-majors die.

   Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

When the smoking scud is blown—

   When the greasy wind-rack lowers—

Apart and at peace and alone,

   He counts the changeless hours.

   He wars with darkling Powers

(I war with, a darkling sea);

   Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not he!

There was never a priest to pray,

   There was never a hand to toll,

When they made me guard of the bay,

   And moored me over the shoal.

   I rock, I reel, and I roll—

My four great hammers ply—

   Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

The landward marks have failed,

   The fog-bank glides unguessed,

The seaward lights are veiled,

   The spent deep feigns her rest:

   But my ear is laid to her breast,

I lift to the swell—I cry!

   Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

At the careless end of night

   I thrill to the nearing screw;

I turn in the clearing light

   And I call to the drowsy crew;

   And the mud boils foul and blue

As the blind bow backs away.

   Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not they!

The beach-pools cake and skim,

   The bursting spray-heads freeze,

I gather on crown and rim

   The grey, grained ice of the seas,

   Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,

The plunging colliers lie.

   Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

Through the blur of the whirling snow,

   Or the black of the inky sleet,

The lanterns gather and grow,

   And I look for the homeward fleet.

   Rattle of block and sheet—

‘Ready about—stand by!’

   Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing

   In the rip of the racing tide,

By the gates of doom I sing,

   On the horns of death I ride.

   A ship-length overside,

Between the course and the sand,

   Fretted and bound I bide

             Peril whereof I cry.

Would I change with my brother a league inland?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

(1896)

Rudyard Kipling – Harp Song of the Dane Women

“The Knights of the Joyous Venture” — Puck of Pook’s Hill

What is a woman that you forsake her,

And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,

To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

She has no house to lay a guest in —

But one chill bed for all to rest in,

That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.

She has no strong white arms to fold you,

But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you—

Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.

Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,

And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,

Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken—

Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters.

You steal away to the lapping waters,

And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.

You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables,

The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables—

To pitch her sides and go over her cables.

Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow,

And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow,

Is all we have left through the months to follow.

Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her,

And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,

To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

Kahlil Gibran – Song of the Soul XXII

In the depth of my soul there is

A wordless song - a song that lives

In the seed of my heart.

It refuses to melt with ink on

Parchment; it engulfs my affection

In a transparent cloak and flows,

But not upon my lips.

How can I sigh it? I fear it may

Mingle with earthly ether;

To whom shall I sing it? It dwells

In the house of my soul, in fear of

Harsh ears.

When I look into my inner eyes

I see the shadow of its shadow;

When I touch my fingertips

I feel its vibrations.

The deeds of my hands heed its

Presence as a lake must reflect

The glittering stars; my tears

Reveal it, as bright drops of dew

Reveal the secret of a withering rose.

It is a song composed by contemplation,

And published by silence,

And shunned by clamor,

And folded by truth,

And repeated by dreams,

And understood by love,

And hidden by awakening,

And sung by the soul.

It is the song of love;

What Cain or Esau could sing it?

It is more fragrant than jasmine;

What voice could enslave it?

It is heartbound, as a virgin's secret;

What string could quiver it?

Who dares unite the roar of the sea

And the singing of the nightingale?

Who dares compare the shrieking tempest

To the sigh of an infant?

Who dares speak aloud the words

Intended for the heart to speak?

What human dares sing in voice

The song of God?

Rudyard Kipling – The Children

("The Honours of War"—A Diversity of Creatures)

1914-18

These were our children who died for our lands: they were dear in our sight.

    We have only the memory left of their home-treasured sayings and laughter.

    The price of our loss shall be paid to our hands, not another’s hereafter.

Neither the Alien nor Priest shall decide on it.    That is our right.

        But who shall return us the children?

At the hour the Barbarian chose to disclose his pretences,

    And raged against Man, they engaged, on the breasts that they bared for us,

    The first felon-stroke of the sword he had long-time prepared for us—

Their bodies were all our defence while we wrought our defences.

They bought us anew with their blood, forbearing to blame us,

Those hours which we had not made good when the Judgment o’ercame us.

They believed us and perished for it.    Our statecraft, our learning

Delivered them bound to the Pit and alive to the burning

Whither they mirthfully hastened as jostling for honour—

Nor since her birth has our Earth seen such worth loosed upon her.

Nor was their agony brief, or once only imposed on them.

    The wounded, the war-spent, the sick received no exemption:

    Being cured they returned and endured and achieved our redemption,

Hopeless themselves of relief, till Death, marveling, closed on them.

That flesh we had nursed from the first in all cleanness was given

To corruption unveiled and assailed by the malice of Heaven—

By the heart-shaking jests of Decay where it lolled in the wires—

To be blanched or gay-painted by fumes— to be cindered by fires—

To be senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation

From crater to crater.    For that we shall take expiation.

        But who shall return us our children?