(@3On hearing of the death of Kipling's son.@1) "HIS son is dead," they say, "His son is dead." "Dead," someone mutters, stirring up the fire, "And still the old world labors without tire, And bears new grain to blow where he was bled." "His father mourns, but not alone," they said. "What need to mourn. His Art can still inspire, Sons of the future for a kinship higher." I thought of Fame these men so coveted, And saw the children of his spirit go Far down the future, lonely, old and strange, Speaking a foreign and an ancient tongue; While he some mourn as dead, who do not know Born of frail flesh, is blown by winds of change, Dust; still immortal; eternal and unsung. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW by JAMES BALLANTYNE THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 17. A LOVER'S PLEA by THOMAS CAMPION A PASTORAL DIALOGUE: SHEPHERD, NYMPH, CHORUS by THOMAS CAREW LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT by JEAN INGELOW IN SCHOOL-DAYS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |