The Writings in Prose and Verse of Rudyard Kipling: Puck of Pook's hill

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C. Scribner's sons, 1906

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Page 140 - Verbenna down to Ostia Hath wasted all the plain ; Astur hath stormed Janiculum, And the stout guards are slain. I wis in all the Senate There was no heart so bold But sore it ached and fast it beat When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the consul, Up rose the Fathers all ; In haste they girded up their gowns And hied them to the wall.
Page 3 - See you our little mill that clacks, So busy by the brook? She has ground her corn and paid her tax Ever since Domesday Book.
Page 72 - I ploughed the land with horses, But my heart was ill at ease, For the old seafaring men Came to me now and then, With their sagas of the seas...
Page 4 - She is not any common Earth, Water or wood or air, But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye, Where you and I will fare.
Page 303 - Teach us the Strength that cannot seek, By deed or thought, to hurt the weak; That, under Thee, we may possess Man's strength to comfort man's distress...
Page 139 - The horsemen and the footmen Are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain, From many a lonely hamlet, Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine; From lordly Volaterrae Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants For godlike kings of old...
Page 66 - You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables, The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables — To pitch her sides and go over her cables! Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow : And the sound of your oar-blades falling hollow, Is all we have left through the months to follow! Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
Page 131 - BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land.
Page 137 - Cities and Thrones and Powers Stand in Time's eye, Almost as long as flowers, Which daily die. But, as new buds put forth To glad new men, Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth The Cities rise again. This season's Daffodil, She never hears What change, what chance, what chill, Cut down last year's: But with bold countenance, And knowledge small, Esteems her seven days
Page 4 - Where the red oxen browse? 0 there was a City thronged and known Ere London boasted a house. And see you, after rain, the trace Of mound and ditch and wall ? O that was a Legion's camping-place, When Caesar sailed from Gaul. And see you marks that show and fade Like shadows on the Downs ? O they are the lines the Flint Men made To guard their wondrous towns.

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