Rudyard Kipling (30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936 / Bombay)
WHEN you come to London Town,
Bring your flowers and lay them down
At the place of grieving.
When you come to London Town,
Bow your head and mourn your own,
With the others grieving.
For those minutes, let it wake
All the empty-heart and ache
That is not cured by grieving.
For those minutes, tell no lie:
'Grave, this is thy victory;
And the sting of death is grieving.'
Where's our help, from earth or heaven,
To comfort us for what we've given,
And only gained the grieving.
Heaven's too far and earth too near,
But our neighbour's standing here,
Grieving as we're grieving.
What's his burden every day?
Nothing man can count or weigh,
But loss and love's own grieving.
What is the tie betwixt us two
That must last our whole lives through?
'As I suffer, so do you.'
That may ease the grieving.
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