I must go down to the seas again to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sails shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume and the seagull crying.

I must go down to the sea again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife:

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover,

And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Isolate your doubts,

To prove them,

Then honour them,

Or kill them.

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is forever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blessed by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

The life of Oriental trade - Pulsates in the bazaars,

Ancient centre of commerce - Eastern world at large,

A thousand years - Yet barely changed her face,

The East does not bustle - Prefers ease to pace

Twenty acres or so - An intricate maze,

Roads of vaulted arches - Endless alleyways,

Narrow, twisting and turning - Teeming as a hive,

With the robe and turban - Of the eastern tribe.

The shops in the bazaar - If you call them that,

Miniature in proportion - Twelve foot square perhaps,

Each trade has a quarter - Confined to an alley or two,

Maybe five hundred shops - With goods to offer you.

In the Caravanserais - Where the camels used to load,

With the produce of the East - To and from the road,

Merchants deal and barter - Goods change hands,

Now manufactured things too - From the Western lands.

The air is pungent - Arresting to your nose,

Forget the tales of gardens - And the Persian rose,

Laden with odours - Tainting the market place,

Offending the nasal sense - Of the Western race.

In the lands of the East - There is a magic word,

That in the bazaars - Forever will be heard,

Need I tell you, - Of the unequal squeeze,

Applied on the Western sahib - for liberal 'Backsheesh'.

No author or playwright - Novelist or sage,

Can paint the picture - Of the Eastern heritage,

You cannot reach her - She's far beyond your mind,

Our ideas are simple - To the East we are but - Blind.

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, not 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 imposters 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 worn-out 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 breath 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 each 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.

Better the lie -- Benevolent,

Than the truth -- Malevolent,

O' - Silence -- Omnipotent.

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow if I can,

Pursuing it with weary feet,

Until it joins some larger way,

Where many paths and errands meet.

And wither then? I cannot say.

There's a one eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,

There's a little marble cross below the town;

There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,

And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as Mad Carew by the subs at Khatmandu,

He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;

But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,

And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,

The fact that she loved him was plain to all.

She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun

To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;

They met next day as he dismissed a squad;

And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do

But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,

And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars;

But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,

Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,

And a gash accross his temple dripping red;

He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,

And the colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they would pass his tunic through;

She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;

He bade her search the pocket saying, 'That's from Mad Carew',

And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,

Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;

But she wouldn't take the stone, and Mad Carew was left alone

With the jewel he had chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,

She thought of him and hastened to his room;

As she crossed the barrack square, she could hear the dreamy air

Of a waltz tune softly stealing through the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;

The place was wet and slippery where she trod;

An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,

'Twas the 'Vengeance of the little Yellow God'.

There's a one eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,

There's a little marble cross below the town;

There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,

And the Yellow God forever gazes down.