Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
To the True Romance
T
Our call and counter-cry,
I shall not find Thee quick and kind,
Nor know Thee till I die.
Enough for me in dreams to see
And touch Thy garments’ hem:
Thy feet have trod so near to God
I may not follow them!
They weary of Thy parts,
E’en let them die at blasphemy
And perish with their arts;
But we that love, but we that prove
Thine excellence august,
While we adore, discover more
Thee perfect, wise, and just.
Beyond his belly-need,
What is is Thine of fair design
In Thought and Craft and Deed.
Each stroke aright of toil and fight,
That was and that shall be,
And hope too high wherefore we die,
Has birth and worth in Thee.
To gild his dross thereby,
And knowledge sure that he endure
A child until he die—
For to make plain that man’s disdain
Is but new Beauty’s birth—
For to possess in singleness
The joy of all the earth.
And Life all mystery,
So shalt Thou rule by every school
Till life and longing die,
Who wast or yet the Lights were set,
A whisper in the Void,
Who shalt be sung through planets young
When this is clean destroyed.
Across the pressing dark,
The children wise of outer skies
Look hitherward and mark
A light that shifts, a glare that drifts,
Rekindling thus and thus,
Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne
Strange tales to them of us.
The servant of Thy will;
Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme
The ranging stars stand still—
Regent of spheres that lock our fears
Our hopes invisible,
Oh ’t was certes at Thy decrees
We fashioned Heaven and Hell!
That lacks thy morning-eyne,
And Captains bold by Thee controlled
Most like to Gods design.
Thou art the Voice to kingly boys
To lift them through the fight,
And Comfortress of Unsuccess,
To give the Dead good-night.
And Man’s infirmity,
A shadow kind to dumb and blind
The shambles where we die;
A rule to trick th’ arithmetic,
Too base, of leaguing odds—
The spur of trust, the curb of lust,
Thou handmaid of the Gods!
Abiding wrack and scaith!
O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats
Yet drops no jot of faith!
Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
To higher, lordlier show,
Who art in sooth that lovely Truth
The careless angels know!
Our call and counter-cry,
I may not find Thee quick and kind,
Nor know Thee till I die.
On blow brought home or missed—
Yet may I hear with equal ear
The clarions down the List;
Yet set my lance above mischance
And ride the barriere—
Oh, hit or miss, how little ’t is,
My Lady is not there!