Christmas in India
Dim dawn behind the tamerisks -- the sky is saffron-yellow --
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.
Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
Oh the clammy fog that hovers
And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry --
What part have India's exiles in their mirth?
Full day begind the tamarisks -- the sky is blue and staring --
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly --
Call on Rama -- he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And to-day we bid "good Christian men rejoice!"
High noon behind the tamarisks -- the sun is hot above us --
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner -- those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!
Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
Youth was cheap -- wherefore we sold it.
Gold was good -- we hoped to hold it,
And to-day we know the fulness of our gain.
Grey dusk behind the tamarisks -- the parrots fly together --
As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
That drags us back how'er so far we roam.
Hard her service, poor her payment -- she is ancient, tattered raiment --
India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter,
The door is hut -- we may not look behind.
Black night behind the tamarisks -- the owls begin their chorus --
As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,
Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!
Call a truce, then, to our labors -- let us feast with friends and neighbors,
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
Rudyard Kipling's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Christmas in India by Rudyard Kipling )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(18 September 1906 - 18 September 1995)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(24 January 1572 - 31 March 1631)
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
- A Child's Christmas in Wales, Dylan Thomas
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- Believe In Yourself, Ronell Warren Alman
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Merry Christmas My Love, Michael P. McParland
- Christmas Trees, Robert Frost
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