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 Ballad Of Bolivar 12/31/2002
6. The Ballad Of Ahmed Shah 3/29/2010
7. Untitled [you Mustn'T Swim Till You'Re Six Weeks Old] 11/28/2014
8. The Song Of The Sons 12/31/2002
9. The Legend Of The Foreign Office 1/3/2003
10. The Lowestoft Boat 1/3/2003
11. The Song Of The Cities 12/31/2002
12. The Man Who Could Write 1/3/2003
13. The Coiner 1/3/2003
14. The Lament Of The Border Cattle Thief 12/31/2002
15. The Press 1/3/2003
16. The City Of Brass 3/24/2010
17. There Was A Small Boy Of Quebec 2/3/2015
18. The Appeal 3/29/2010
19. The Liner She's A Lady 12/31/2002
20. The King's Job 1/3/2003
21. The Bother 1/3/2003
22. The Jacket 12/31/2002
23. The Songs Of The Lathes 12/31/2002
24. The Song Of The Old Guard 12/31/2002
25. The Ballad Of Minepit Shaw 1/3/2003
26. The Braggart 1/3/2003
27. The Conversion Of Aurelian Mcgoggin 1/3/2003
28. 'Tin Fish' 3/3/2015
29. To Thomas Atkins 12/31/2002
30. The Master-Cook 1/3/2003
31. The Legend Of Mirth 1/3/2003
32. The Spies' March 12/31/2002
33. The Fall Of Jock Gillespie 1/3/2003
34. The New Knighthood 1/3/2003
35. The Legends Of Evil 1/1/2004
36. The Last Suttee 12/31/2002
37. The Outlaws 1/3/2003
38. The Post That Fitted 1/3/2003
39. The Dying Chauffeur 1/3/2003
40. The Coastwise Lights 12/31/2002
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]