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>*The Stranger* by Rudyard Kipling

The Stranger within my gate,

 He may be true or kind,

 But he does not talk my talk—

  I cannot feel his mind.
 
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
   
But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock
  
They may do ill or well,
 
But they tell the lies I am wonted to,
 
 They are used to the lies I tell.
 
And we do not need interpreters
  
When we go to buy and sell.

The Stranger within my gates,
   
He may be evil or good,
 
But I cannot tell what powers control—
 
 What reasons sway his mood;
 
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
  
Shall repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock,
   
Bitter bad they may be,
 
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
  
And see the things I see;
 
And whatever I think of them and their likes
  
They think of the likes of me.

This was my father's belief
   
And this is also mine:
 
Let the corn be all one sheaf—
  
And the grapes be all one vine,
 
Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
  
By bitter bread and wine.

The White Man's Burden

Take up the White Man's burden—

    Send forth the best ye breed—

Go bind your sons to exile

  To serve your captives' need;

To wait in heavy harness

 On fluttered folk and wild—

Your new-caught sullen peoples,

  Half devil and half child.


Take up the White Man's burden—

    In patience to abide

To veil the threat of terror

    And check the show of pride;

By open speech and simple,

    An hundred times made plain,

To seek another's profit,

    And work another's gain.


Take up the White Man's burden—

    The savage wars of peace—

Fill full the mouth of famine

    And bid the sickness cease;

And when your goal is nearest

    The end for others sought,

Watch Sloth and heathen Folly

    Bring all your hopes to nought.


Take up the White Man's burden—

    No tawdry rule of kings,

But toil of serf and sweeper—

    The tale of common things.

The ports ye shall not enter,

    The roads ye shall not tread,

Go make them with your living,

    And mark them with your dead!


Take up the White Man's burden—

    And reap his old reward,

The blame of those ye better,

    The hate of those ye guard—

The cry of hosts ye humour

    (Ah slowly!) toward the light—

"Why brought ye us from bondage,

    "Our loved Egyptian night?"


Take up the White Man's burden—

    Ye dare not stoop to less—

Nor call too loud on Freedom

    To cloak your weariness;

By all ye cry or whisper,

    By all ye leave or do,

The silent sullen peoples

    Shall weigh your Gods and you.


Take up the White Man's burden—

    Have done with childish days—

The lightly proffered laurel,

    The easy, ungrudged praise.

Comes now, to search your manhood

    Through all the thankless years,

Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom,

    The judgement of your peers.

It was not part of their blood, It came to them very late, With long arrears to make good, When the Saxon began to hate.

They were not easily moved, They were icy -- willing to wait Till every count should be proved, Ere the Saxon began to hate.

Their voices were even and low. Their eyes were level and straight. There was neither sign nor show When the Saxon began to hate.

It was not preached to the crowd. It was not taught by the state. No man spoke it aloud When the Saxon began to hate.

It was not suddently bred. It will not swiftly abate. Through the chilled years ahead, When Time shall count from the date That the Saxon began to hate.

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 same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

   Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

   And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

   And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

   And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

   To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

   Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

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!

----If, by Rudyard Kipling