Page:Rudyard Kipling's verse - Inclusive Edition 1885-1918.djvu/134

         With my "Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!"
             Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past,
         Ere the wit made you win gives you eyes to see your sin
             And—the heavier repentance at the last!

Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof—
    I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!
Let the trumpet snare the foeman to the proof—
     I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!
My bray ye may not alter nor mistake
     When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,
But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,
     Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?

         With my "Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!"
                [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?]
         But the word—the word is mine, when the order moves the line
             And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die!

The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre—
     [O the blue below the little fisher-huts!]
That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire,
     Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts!
By the wisdom of the centuries I speak—
     To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth—
I, the joy of life unquestioned—I, the Greek—
     I, the everlasting Wonder-song of Youth!

         With my "Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!"
             [What d'ye lack, my noble masters? What d'ye lack?]
         So I draw the world together link by link:
             Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!