Poesie di Rudyard Kipling

Scrittore e poeta, nato sabato 30 dicembre 1865 a Mumbai (India), morto sabato 18 gennaio 1936 a Middlesex Hospital, Londra (Regno Unito)
Questo autore lo trovi anche in Frasi & Aforismi e in Racconti.

Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
England'S on the anvil--hear the hammers ring--
Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne!
Never was a blacksmith like our Norman King--
England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into line!

England's on the anvil! Heavy are the blows!
(But the work will be a marvel when it's done. )
Little bits of Kingdoms cannot stand against their foes.
England's being hammered hammered, hammered into one!

There shall be one people--it shall serve one Lord--
(Neither Priest nor Baron shall escape! )
It shall have one speech and law, soul and strength and sword.
England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into
Rudyard Kipling
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    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz

    The Answer

    A Rose, in tatters on the garden path,
    Cried out to God and murmured 'gainst His Wrath,
    Because a sudden wind at twilight's hush
    Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.
    And God, Who hears both sun-dried dust and sun,
    Had pity, whispering to that luckless one,
    "Sister, in that thou sayest We did not well --
    What voices heardst thou when thy petals fell? "
    And the Rose answered, "In that evil hour
    A voice said, 'Father, wherefore falls the flower?
    For lo, the very gossamers are still. '
    And a voice answered, 'Son, by Allah's will! '"

    Then softly as a rain-mist on the sward,
    Came to the Rose the Answer of the Lord:
    "Sister, before We smote the Dark in twain,
    Ere yet the stars saw one another plain,
    Time, Tide, and Space, We bound unto the task
    That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask. "
    Whereat the withered flower, all content,
    Died as they die whose days are innocent;
    While he who questioned why the flower fell
    Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell.
    Rudyard Kipling
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      Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
      Our gloves are stiff with the frozen blood,
       Our furs with the drifted snow,
      As we come in with the seal--the seal!
       In from the edge of the floe.

      Au jana! Aua! Oha! Haq!
       And the yelping dog-teams go;
      And the long whips crack, and the men come back,
       Back from the edge of the floe!

      We tracked our seal to his secret place,
       We heard him scratch below,
      We made our mark, and we watched beside,
       Out on the edge of the floe.

      We raised our lance when he rose to breathe,
       We drove it downward--so!
      And we played him thus, and we killed him thus,
       Out on the edge of the floe.

      Our gloves are glued with the frozen blood,
       Our eyes with the drifting snow;
      But we come back to our wives again,
       Back from the edge of the floe!

      Au jana! Aua! Oha! Haq!
       And the loaded dog-teams go;
      And the wives can hear their men come back,
       Back from the edge of the floe!
      Rudyard Kipling
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        Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
        Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah, heave her short again!
        Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
        Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full --
        Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
         Well, ah, fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love --
          Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
                For the wind has come to say:
                "You must take me while you may,
             If you'd go to Mother Carey
             (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
          Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!"

        Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah, break it out o' that!
        Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear!
        Port -- port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot,
        And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year!
         Well, ah, fare you well, for we've got to take her out again --
          Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.
             And it's time to clear and quit
             When the hawser grips the bitt,
          So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!

        Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her!
        Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!
        Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.
        Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!
         Well, ah, fare you well, for the Channel wind's took hold of us,
          Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.
             And it's blowing up for night,
             And she's dropping light on light,
          And she's snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea,

        Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone to-night.
        Sick she is and harbour-sick -- Oh, sick to clear the land!
        Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us --
        Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll stand!
         Well, ah, fare you well, and it's Ushant slams the door on us,
          Whirling like a windmill through the dirty scud to lee:
                Till the last, last flicker goes
                From the tumbling water-rows,
             And we're off to Mother Carey
             (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
          Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!
        Rudyard Kipling
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          Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
          Twas not while England's sword unsheathed
          Put half a world to flight,
          Nor while their new-built cities breathed
          Secure behind her might;
          Not while she poured from Pole to Line
          Treasure and ships and men--
          These worshippers at Freedoms shrine
          They did not quit her then!

          Not till their foes were driven forth
          By England o'er the main--
          Not till the Frenchman from the North
          Had gone with shattered Spain;
          Not till the clean-swept oceans showed
          No hostile flag unrolled,
          Did they remember that they owed
          To Freedom--and were bold!


          The snow lies thick on Valley Forge,
          The ice on the Delaware,
          But the poor dead soldiers of King George
          They neither know nor care.

          Not though the earliest primrose break
          On the sunny side of the lane,
          And scuffling rookeries awake
          Their England's spring again.

          They will not stir when the drifts are gone,
          Or the ice melts out of the bay:
          And the men that served with Washington
          Lie all as still as they.

          They will not stir though the mayflower blows
          In the moist dark woods of pine,
          And every rock-strewn pasture shows
          Mullein and columbine.

          Each for his land, in a fair fight,
          Encountered strove, and died,
          And the kindly earth that knows no spite
          Covers them side by side.

          She is too busy to think of war;
          She has all the world to make gay;
          And, behold, the yearly flowers are
          Where they were in our fathers'day!

          Golden-rod by the pasture-wall
          When the columbine is dead,
          And sumach leaves that turn, in fall,
          Bright as the blood they shed.
          Rudyard Kipling
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