6oo RUDYARD KIPLING'S VERSE
Yes, sometimes in a smoking-room, through clouds of "Ers" and "Urns,"
Obliquely and by inference, illumination comes,
On some step that they have taken, or some action they ap- prove
Embellished with the argot of the Upper Fourth Remove.
In telegraphic sentences,, half nodded to their friends, They hint a matter's inwardness and there the matter ends. And while the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall, The English ah, the English! don't say anything at all.
THE PRESS
HPHE Soldier may forget his Sword,
The Sailorman the Sea, The Mason may forget the Word
And the Priest his Litany: The Maid may forget both jewel and gem,
And the Bride her wedding-dress But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem
Ere we forget the Press!
Vho once hath stood through the loaded hour
Ere, roaring like the gale, The Harrild and the Hoe devour
Their league-long paper-bale, And has lit his pipe in the morning calm
That follows the midnight stress He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art
We call the daily Press.
Who once hath dealt in the widest game
That all of a man can play, No later love, no larger fame
Will lure him long away.