The Portent

0h, late withdrawn from human-kind
And following dreams we never knew!
Varus, what dream has Fate assigned
To trouble you?

Such virtue as commends of law
Of Virtue to the vulgar horde
Suffices not. You needs must draw
A righteous sword;

And, flagrant in well-doing, smite
The priests of Bacchus at their fane,
Lest any worshipper invite
The God again.

Whence public strife and naked crime
And-deadlier than the cup you shun,
A people schooled to mock, in time,
All law--not one.

Cease, then, to fashion State-made sin,
Nor give thy children cause to doubt
That Virtue springs from Iron within,
Not lead without.

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

To Thomas Atkins

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

The Explanation

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

The Beginning Of The Armadilloes

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

The Heritage

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

English

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Ode

I

Who rises on the banks of Seine,
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Ode IX. To Curio

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Since I exulting grasp'd the tuneful shell:
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Presentiments

Presentiments! they judge not right
Who deem that ye from open light
Retire in fear of shame;
All 'heaven-born' Instincts shun the touch
Of vulgar sense, and, being such,
Such privilege ye claim.

The tear whose source I could not guess,
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And venture on your praise.

What though some busy foes to good,
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An American

The American Spirit speaks:

If the Led Striker call it a strike,
Or the papers call it a war,
They know not much what I am like,
Nor what he is, My Avatar.

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He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
He is the Jester and the Jest,
And he the Text himself applies.

The Celt is in his heart and hand,
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Rudyard

Chapter Headings - The Naulahka

There was a strife twixt man and maid
Oh that was at the birth of time!
But what befall twixt man and maid,,
Oh thats beyond the grip of rhyme.
Twas, Sweet, I must not bide with you,
And Love, I cannot bide alone;
For both were young and both were true,
And both were hard as the nether stone.



Beware the man whos crossed in love;
For pent-up steam must find its vent.
Stand back when he is on the move,
And lend him all the Continent.



Your patience, Sirs. The Devil took me up
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Dion

See Plutarch.
Serene, and fitted to embrace,
Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace
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And to unfold a still magnificence,
Was princely Dion, in the power
And beauty of his happier hour.
And what pure homage then did wait
On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere,
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Softening their inbred dignity austere
That he, not too elate
With self-sufficing solitude,
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