Here are two great poems by the legendary English writer Rudyard Kipling. To be honest , so far i haven`t made any in-depth research in Kipling`s writings and poems. I know only the basics and things i saw here and there or probably i saw a couple of documentaries that describe his life and India of his time. Something which is always really intresting to me (Everytime i watch pictures of Kipling`s lifetime or covers of his books it always bring to my mind Jules Verne`s hero Phileas Fogg from "Around The World in Eighty Days" and his adventures in India), Ofcourse i`m very familiar with THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. Amongst other things Kipling is also famous for his many poems and the tongue he used in many of his works. From what i read in Counter-Currents , the following two poems are not included in any of the post-WW2 official publications of his works. By the nature of this poems , we can easily understand why this is happening. Thats great pieces that speak directly to the soul of any conscious European.
A Song of the White Men
Now, this is the cup the White Men drink
When they go to right a wrong,
And that is the cup of the old world’s hate–
Cruel and strained and strong.
We have drunk that cup—and a bitter, bitter cup
And tossed the dregs away.
But well for the world when the White Men drink
To the dawn of the White Man’s day!
Now, this is the road that the White Men tread
When they go to clean a land–
Iron underfoot and levin overhead
And the deep on either hand.
We have trod that road—and a wet and windy road
Our chosen star for guide.
Oh, well for the world when the White Men tread
Their highway side by side!
Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold
When they build their homes afar–
“Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons
And, failing freedom, War. ”
We have proved our faith—bear witness to our faith,
Dear souls of freemen slain!
Oh, well for the world when the White Men join
To prove their faith again!
The Stranger
The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk–
I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.
The men of my own stock
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wonted to.
They are used to the lies I tell,
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy and sell.
The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.
The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.
This was my father’s belief
And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf–
And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children’s teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.
