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Remembering Rudyard Kipling:
December 30, 1865 to January 18, 1936

1,402 words

John Collier, Portrait of Rudyard Kipling, circa 1891

John Collier, Portrait of Rudyard Kipling, circa 1891

Nobel Prize-winning poet and novelist Rudyard Kipling was born on this day in 1865. For an introduction to his life and works, see the following articles on this site.

The Pierce article also contains a number of Kipling’s best poems.

An additional selection is found below. Please post your favorite Kipling poems and quotes in the comments section below.


IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!

The Wrath of the Awakened Saxon

It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late,
With long arrears to make good,
When the Saxon began to hate.

They were not easily moved,
They were icy — willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the Saxon began to hate.

Their voices were even and low.
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show
When the Saxon began to hate.

It was not preached to the crowd.
It was not taught by the state.
No man spoke it aloud
When the Saxon began to hate.

It was not suddently bred.
It will not swiftly abate.
Through the chilled years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the Saxon began to hate.

The White Man’s Burden

Take up the White Man’s burden —
Send forth the best ye breed —
Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives’ need;
To wait in heavy harness,
On fluttered folk and wild —
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half-devil and half-child.

Take up the White Man’s burden —
In patience to abide,
To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
An hundred times made plain
To seek another’s profit,
And work another’s gain.

Take up the White Man’s burden —
The savage wars of peace —
Fill full the mouth of Famine
And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
The end for others sought,
Watch sloth and heathen Folly
Bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man’s burden —
No tawdry rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper —
The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
The roads ye shall not tread,
Go mark them with your living,
And mark them with your dead.

Take up the White Man’s burden —
And reap his old reward:
The blame of those ye better,
The hate of those ye guard —
The cry of hosts ye humour
(Ah, slowly!) toward the light: —
“Why brought he us from bondage,
Our loved Egyptian night?”

Take up the White Man’s burden —
Ye dare not stoop to less —
Nor call too loud on Freedom
To cloke your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent, sullen peoples
Shall weigh your gods and you.

Take up the White Man’s burden —
Have done with childish days —
The lightly proferred laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years
Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers!

The Female of the Species

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
‘Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other’s tale —
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations — worm and savage otherwise, —
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger — Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue — to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity — must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions — not in these her honour dwells —
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions — in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies! —
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges — even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons — even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish — like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice — which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern — shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.



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  1. Peter Quint
    Posted December 30, 2014 at 11:13 am | Permalink

    Isn’t there another relevant Kipling poem called “The Seventh River” or some-such which is about the jews? I have wanted to put this out there for the past couple months, it is this; –When the last of us (whites) whom were born before the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 was put into force, passes away, the last remnants of white America will be gone. White America will only exist in old black and white films.– This thought troubles and vexes me everyday. I just wanted to put that out there to my fellow white nationalists.

    • Peter Quint
      Posted January 2, 2015 at 9:37 am | Permalink

      The poem is “The Song of The Fifth River.”

      • Peter Quint
        Posted January 7, 2015 at 10:46 am | Permalink

        The Song Of The Fifth River

        Where first by Eden Tree
        The Four Great Rivers ran,
        To each was appointed a Man
        Her Prince and Ruler to be.

        But after this was ordained
        (The ancient legends’ tell),
        There came dark Israel,
        For whom no River remained.

        Then He Whom the Rivers obey
        Said to him: “Fling on the ground
        A handful of yellow clay,
        And a Fifth Great River shall run,
        Mightier than these Four,
        In secret the Earth around;
        And Her secret evermore,
        Shall be shown to thee and thy Race.”

        So it was said and done.
        And, deep in the veins of Earth,
        And, fed by a thousand springs
        That comfort the market-place,
        Or sap the power of King,
        The Fifth Great River had birth,
        Even as it was foretold–
        The Secret River of Gold!

        And Israel laid down
        His sceptre and his crown,
        To brood on that River bank
        Where the waters flashed and sank
        And burrowed in earth and fell
        And bided a season below,
        For reason that none might know,
        Save only Israel

        He is Lord of the Last–
        The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.
        He hears Her thunder past
        And Her Song is in his blood.
        He can foresay: “She will fall,”
        For he knows which fountain dries
        Behind which desert-belt
        A thousand leagues to the South.

        He can foresay: “She will rise.”
        He knows what far snows melt
        Along what mountain-wall
        A thousand leagues to the North,
        He snuffs the coming drouth
        As he snuffs the coming rain,
        He knows what each will bring forth,
        And turns it to his gain.

        A Ruler without a Throne,
        A Prince without a Sword,
        Israel follows his quest.
        In every land a guest,
        Of many lands a lord,
        In no land King is he.
        But the Fifth Great River keeps
        The secret of Her deeps
        For Israel alone,
        As it was ordered to be.

  2. 425
    Posted December 30, 2014 at 2:34 am | Permalink

    Here are some good ones:


    There are four good legs to my Father’s Chair–
    Priests and People and Lords and Crown.
    I sits on all of ’em fair and square,
    And that is reason it don’t break down.

    I won’t trust one leg, nor two, nor three,
    To carry my weight when I sets me down.
    I wants all four of ’em under me–
    Priests and People and Lords and Crown.

    I sits on all four and favours none–
    Priests, nor People, nor Lords, nor Crown:
    And I never tilts in my chair, my son,
    And that is the reason it don’t break down.

    When your time comes to sit in my Chair,
    Remember your Father’s habits and rules,
    Sit on all four legs, fair and square,
    And never be tempted by one-legged stools!


    It is always a temptation to an armed and agile nation
    To call upon a neighbour and to say: –
    “We invaded you last night – we are quite prepared to fight,
    Unless you pay us cash to go away.”

    And that is called asking for Dane-geld,
    And the people who ask it explain
    That you’ve only to pay ’em the Dane-geld
    And then you’ll get rid of the Dane!

    It is always a temptation for a rich and lazy nation,
    To puff and look important and to say: –
    “Though we know we should defeat you,
    we have not the time to meet you.
    We will therefore pay you cash to go away.”

    And that is called paying the Dane-geld;
    But we’ve proved it again and again,
    That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld
    You never get rid of the Dane.

    It is wrong to put temptation in the path of any nation,
    For fear they should succumb and go astray;
    So when you are requested to pay up or be molested,
    You will find it better policy to say: —

    “We never pay any-one Dane-geld,
    No matter how trifling the cost;
    For the end of that game is oppression and shame,
    And the nation that plays it is lost!”

  3. Posted December 30, 2014 at 2:21 am | Permalink

    “It’s pretty—but is it art?” From my favorite Kipling poem, the rather difficult and ponderous “Conundrum of the Workshops,” which one frequently hears quoted but no one ever memorizes.


    WHEN the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,
    Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold;
    And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
    Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”

    Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew—
    The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
    And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glorious gain
    When the Devil chuckled: “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.

    They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
    Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It’s striking, but is it Art?”
    The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,
    While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.

    They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,
    Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—
    Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
    And the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It’s human, but is it Art?”

    The tale is old as the Eden Tree—as new as the new-cut tooth—
    For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
    And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
    The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?”

    We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,
    We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,
    We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart;
    But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It’s clever, but is it Art?”

    When the flicker of London’s sun falls faint on the club-room’s green and gold,
    The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold—
    They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start
    When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it art?”

    Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four great rivers flow,
    And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
    And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through,
    By the favor of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew.

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