Rudyard Kipling

(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936 / Bombay)

Rudyard Kipling Poems

1. Hymn of Breaking Strain 8/26/2015
2. The Last Chantey 12/31/2002
3. The Parting of the Column 6/10/2015
4. Epitaphs Of The War 1/26/2016
5. The Songs Of The Lathes 12/31/2002
6. The Ballad Of Fisher's Boarding-House 12/31/2002
7. The Landau 1/3/2003
8. The North Sea Patrol 1/3/2003
9. The Ballad Of Bolivar 12/31/2002
10. The Ballad Of Ahmed Shah 3/29/2010
11. A Song of the White Men 1/8/2016
12. The Song Of The Sons 12/31/2002
13. The Lowestoft Boat 1/3/2003
14. The Song Of The Cities 12/31/2002
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. The Appeal 3/29/2010
20. The Liner She's A Lady 12/31/2002
21. The Legend Of The Foreign Office 1/3/2003
22. Untitled [you Mustn'T Swim Till You'Re Six Weeks Old] 11/28/2014
23. The Man Who Could Write 1/3/2003
24. The Jacket 12/31/2002
25. The Braggart 1/3/2003
26. The Conversion Of Aurelian Mcgoggin 1/3/2003
27. The Cure 1/3/2003
28. The Legend Of Mirth 1/3/2003
29. The Spies' March 12/31/2002
30. The Last Suttee 12/31/2002
31. There Was A Small Boy Of Quebec 2/3/2015
32. The Bother 1/3/2003
33. The Ballad Of Minepit Shaw 1/3/2003
34. The Nursing Sister 1/3/2003
35. The Last Ode 1/3/2003
36. 'Tin Fish' 3/3/2015
37. The Dying Chauffeur 1/3/2003
38. The Coastwise Lights 12/31/2002
39. The Long Trail 1/3/2003
40. The Last Lap 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 ...

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The People of the Eastern Ice, they are melting like the snow--
They beg for coffee and sugar; they go where the white men go.
The People of the Western Ice, they learn to steal and fight;
They sell their furs to the trading-post; they sell their souls to
the white.
The People of the Southern Ice, they trade with the whaler's
Their women have many ribbons, but their tents are torn and few.
But the People of the Elder Ice, beyond the white man's ken--

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