Puck of Pook's Hill, by Rudyard Kipling

A Centurion of the Thirtieth

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’ continuance

To be perpetual.

So Time that is o’er-kind,

To all that be,

Ordains us e’en as blind,

As bold as she:

That in our very death,

And burial sure,

Shadow to shadow, well-persuaded, saith,

’See how our works endure!‘


Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:56