Rudyard Kipling

(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936 / Bombay)

Rudyard Kipling Poems

1. The Last Chantey 12/31/2002
2. The Ballad Of Fisher's Boarding-House 12/31/2002
3. The Landau 1/3/2003
4. The North Sea Patrol 1/3/2003
5. The Songs Of The Lathes 12/31/2002
6. The Ballad Of Ahmed Shah 3/29/2010
7. The Ballad Of Bolivar 12/31/2002
8. The Parting of the Column 6/10/2015
9. Untitled [you Mustn'T Swim Till You'Re Six Weeks Old] 11/28/2014
10. The Song Of The Sons 12/31/2002
11. The Legend Of The Foreign Office 1/3/2003
12. The Lowestoft Boat 1/3/2003
13. The Song Of The Cities 12/31/2002
14. The Man Who Could Write 1/3/2003
15. The Coiner 1/3/2003
16. The Lament Of The Border Cattle Thief 12/31/2002
17. The Press 1/3/2003
18. The City Of Brass 3/24/2010
19. Hymn of Breaking Strain 8/26/2015
20. There Was A Small Boy Of Quebec 2/3/2015
21. The Appeal 3/29/2010
22. The Liner She's A Lady 12/31/2002
23. The Song Of The Old Guard 12/31/2002
24. The Jacket 12/31/2002
25. The Bother 1/3/2003
26. The Ballad Of Minepit Shaw 1/3/2003
27. The Braggart 1/3/2003
28. The Conversion Of Aurelian Mcgoggin 1/3/2003
29. 'Tin Fish' 3/3/2015
30. To Thomas Atkins 12/31/2002
31. The Master-Cook 1/3/2003
32. The Legend Of Mirth 1/3/2003
33. The Spies' March 12/31/2002
34. The New Knighthood 1/3/2003
35. The Legends Of Evil 1/1/2004
36. The Last Suttee 12/31/2002
37. The Nursing Sister 1/3/2003
38. The Dying Chauffeur 1/3/2003
39. The Coastwise Lights 12/31/2002
40. The Long Trail 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Rudyard Kipling


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 ...

Read the full of If

The First Chantey

Mine was the woman to me, darkling I found her;
Haling her dumb from the camp, took her and bound her.
Hot rose her tribe on our track ere I had proved her;
Hearing her laugh in the gloom, greatly I loved her.

Swift through the forest we ran; none stood to guard us,
Few were my people and far; then the flood barred us --
Him we call Son of the Sea, sullen and swollen.
Panting we waited the death, stealer and stolen.

[Hata Bildir]