Common Form

If any questions why we died,
Tell them, because our fathers lied.

Rudyard

Rudyard Kipling was an English journalist, short-story writer, poet, and novelist. He was born in British India, which inspired much of his work. His notable works include the novels 'The Jungle Book,' 'Kim,' and the poem 'If—.' Kipling was one of the most popular writers in the United Kingdom in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907, making him the youngest recipient of the award.

Rudyard

Tommy

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

From Lydens Irenius - Act III. Sc. II.

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

Evarra And His Gods

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

Songs Of Seventy Horses

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Dead Statesman

I could not dig; I dared not rob:
Therefore I lied to please the mob.
Now all my lies are proved untrue
And I must face the men I slew.
What tale shall serve me here among
Mine angry and defrauded young?

Rudyard

Wilful Missing

(Deserters)
There is a world outside the one you know,
To which for curiousness 'Ell can't compare,
It is the place where "wilful-missings" go,
As we can testify, for we are there.

You may 'ave read a bullet laid us low,
That we was gathered in "with reverent care"
And buried proper. But it was not so,
As we can testify , for we are there!

They can't be certain, faces alter so
After the old aasvogel 'ad 'is share.
The uniform's the mark by which they go,
And, ain't it odd?, the one we best can spare.

We might 'ave seen our chance to cut the show,
Name, number, record, an 'begin elsewhere,
Leaven'' some not too late-lamented foe
One funeral-private-British-for 'is share.

We may 'ave took it yonder in the Low
Bush-veldt that sen...

Rudyard

His Wedded Wife

Cry "Murder" in the market-place, and each
Will turn upon his neighbour anxious eyes
Asking: "Art thou the man?" We hunted Cain
Some centuries ago across the world.
This bred the fear our own misdeeds maintain
To-day.

Rudyard

Epitaphs Of The War

EQUALITY OF SACRIFICE

A. I was a Have. B. I was a have-not.
(Together.) What hast thou given which I gave not?

A SERVANT

We were together since the War began.
He was my servant, and the better man.

A SON

My son was killed while laughing at some jest. I would I knew
What it was, and it might serve me in a time when jests are few.

AN ONLY SON

I have slain none except my Mother.
She (Blessing her slayer) died of grief for me.

EX-CLERK

Pity not! The Army gave
Freedom to a timid slave:
In which Freedom did he find
Strength of body, will, and mind:
By which strength he came to prove
Mirth, Companionship, and Love:
For which Love to Death he went:
In which Death he lies content.
...

Rudyard

The Children

These were our children who died for our lands: they were dear in our sight.
We have only the memory left of their hometreasured 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 longtime 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, ou...

Rudyard

Anecdote For Fathers.

Designed to show that the practice of lying is not confined to children.

By the late W. W. (of H.M. Inland Revenue Service).

And is it so?    Can Folly stalk
And aim her unrespecting darts
In shades where grave Professors walk
    And Bachelors of Arts?

I have a boy, not six years old,
A sprite of birth and lineage high:
His birth I did myself behold,
    His caste is in his eye.

And oh! his limbs are full of grace,
His boyish beauty past compare:
His mother's joy to wash his face,
    And mine to brush his hair!

One morn we strolled on our short walk,
With four goloshes on our shoes,
And held the customary talk
    That parents love to use.

(And oft I turn it into verse,
And write it down upon a page,
Wh...

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch