Since the offspring of the British Empire have chosen to disavow the best poet of that empire, and it is Friday, and I am of this profession, a very short poem.
Man dies too soon, beside his works half-planned.
His days are counted and reprieve is vain:
Who shall entreat with Death to stay his hand;
Or cloke the shameful nakedness of pain?
Send here the bold, the seekers of the way–
The passionless, the unshakeable of soul,
Who serve the inmost mysteries of man’s clay,
And ask no more than leave to make them whole.
As an aside, In am in the habit of screenshooting the photos I use so that they are acknowledged, and this was chosen because I percieve that Kipling loved India more than the current postcolonial postimperial social activists.