Rudyard Kipling

Over the edge of the purple down, Where the single lamplight gleams, Know ye the road to the Merciful Town That is hard by the Sea of Dreams – Where the poor may lay their wrongs away, And the sick may forget to weep? But we – pity us! Oh, pity us! We wakeful; ah, pity us! – We must go back with Policeman Day – Back from the City of Sleep! Weary they turn from the scroll and crown, Fetter and prayer and plough – They that go up to the Merciful Town, For her gates are closing now. It is their right in the Baths of Night Body and soul to steep, But we – pity us! ah, pity us! We wakeful; oh, pity us! – We must go back with Policeman Day – Back from the City of Sleep! Over the edge of the purple down, Ere the tender dreams begin, Look – we may look – at the Merciful Town, But we may not enter in! Outcasts all, from her guarded wall Back to our watch we creep: We – pity us! ah, pity us! We wakeful; ah, pity us! – We that go back with Policeman Day – Back from the City of Sleep!

1914-18 ("The Honours of War" —A Diversity of Creatures) 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?

Ah! What avails the classic bent And what the cultured word, Against the undoctored incident That actually occurred?

1896 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!