Rudyard Kipling: A Criticism

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John Lane, 1900 - 163 էջ
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This 1900 volume offers an analysis of Kipling's work by the English author.

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Էջ 17 - You have heard the call of the off-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain ; You have heard the song— how long — how long? Pull out on the trail again!
Էջ 19 - It's clever, but is it Art?' When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Clubroom's green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould — They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start, For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: 'It's pretty, but is it Art?
Էջ 17 - British soldier; come you back to Mandalay ! ' Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin from Rangoon to Mandalay?
Էջ 46 - The depth and dream of my desire, The bitter paths wherein I stray, Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire, Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay ! 166 One stone the more swings to her place In that dread Temple of Thy Worth — It is enough that through Thy grace I saw naught common on Thy earth.
Էջ 22 - And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride: He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides: "Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?
Էջ 8 - And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips...
Էջ 159 - Lo, this only have I found, that God hath made man upright; but they have sought out many inventions.
Էջ 41 - It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world, Which you can read and care for just so long, But presently you feel that you will die Unless you...
Էջ 33 - I'd been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws, Manholin', on my back — the cranks three inches off my nose. Romance ! Those first-class passengers they like it very well, Printed an' bound in little books ; but why don't poets tell? I 'm sick of all their quirks an...

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