IfRewards and Fairies (1910)
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 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!
In a 1995 BBC opinion poll,
If was voted Britain's favourite poem.
The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass - we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.
It didn't pass - it didn't pass -
It didn't pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Joseph Rudyard Kipling (December 30, 1865 - January 18, 1936)
was a British author and poet. He was born in Bombay (now called
Mumbai), India. Young Kiplings's earliest years in Bombay were
happy in the exotic India. At the age of five he was sent back
to England to stay with a foster family in Southsea, where he was
unhappy. This experience would colour some of his later writing.
In 1892 he married Caroline Balastier. They would live in the USA
(Vermont) for the next four years. During this time he wrote the
work for which he is most remembered today - "The Jungle Book"
and its sequel "The Second Jungle Book" (in 1894 and 1895).
During the first decade of the 20th century, he was at the height of
his popularity and was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907.
Personal misfortune haunted Kiplings' middle years. His sister became
mentally ill. One of his daughters died as a little girl and his son got
killed in WWI at the age of 18.
He kept writing until the early 1930s, but with less success than before.
Rudyard Kipling died of a brain haemorrhage in London on January