Rudyard Kipling Quotes

England’s on the anvil—hear the hammers ring— Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne!

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man— There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire, And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire.

If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied.

Pull out, pull out on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new!

It’s north you may run to the rime-ringed sun, Or south to the blind Horn’s hate; Or east all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or west to the Golden Gate.

There is but one task for all— For each one life to give. What stands if freedom fall? Who dies if England live?

For all we have and are, For all our children’s fate, Stand up and take the war. The Hun is at the gate!

Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees, So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made By singing:—‘Oh, how beautiful!’ and sitting in the shade, While better men than we go out and start their working lives At grubbing weeds from gravel paths with broken dinner-knives.

Our England is a garden that is full of stately views, Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues, With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by; But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

‘Oh, where are you going to, all you Big Steamers, With England’s own coal, up and down the salt seas?’ ‘We are going to fetch you your bread and your butter, Your beef, pork, and mutton, eggs, apples and cheese.’

One man in a thousand, Solomon says, Will stick more close than a brother.

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it. And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

They shut the road through the woods Seventy years ago. Weather and rain have undone it again, And now you would never know There was once a road through the woods.

There is sorrow enough in the natural way From men and women to fill our day; But when we are certain of sorrow in store, Why do we always arrange for more? Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

But I consort with long-haired things In velvet collar-rolls, Who talk about the Aims of Art, And ‘theories’ and ‘goals’, And moo and coo with women-folk About their blessed souls.

Teach us delight in simple things And mirth that has no bitter springs; Forgiveness free of evil done, And love to all men ’neath the sun!