The Dykes
by
Rudyard Kipling
|
| We have no heart for the fishing―we
have no hand for the oar― |
| All that our fathers taught us of old
pleases us now no more. |
| All that our own hearts bid us believe
we doubt where we do not deny― |
There is no proof in the bread we eat
nor rest in the toil we ply.
|
| Look you, our foreshore stretches far
through sea-gate, dyke, and groin― |
| Made land all, that our fathers made,
where the flats and the fairway join. |
| They forced the sea a sea-league back.
They died, and their work stood fast. |
We were born to peace in the lee of the
dykes, but the time of our peace is past.
|
| Far off, the full tide clambers and
slips, mouthing and testing all, |
| Nipping the flanks of the water-gates,
baying along the wall; |
| Turning the shingle, returning the
shingle, changing the set of the sand . . . |
We are too far from the beach, men say,
to know how the outworks stand.
|
| So we come down, uneasy, to look;
uneasily pacing the beach. |
| These are the dykes our fathers made:
we have never known a breach. |
| Time and again has the gale blown by
and we were not afraid; |
Now we come only to look at the
dykes―at the dykes our fathers made.
|
| O’er the marsh where the homesteads
cower apart the harried sunlight flies, |
| Shifts and considers, wanes and
recovers, scatters and sickens and dies― |
| An evil ember bedded in ash―a spark
blown west by the wind . . . |
We are surrendered to night and the
sea―the gale and the tide behind!
|
| At the bridge of the lower saltings the
cattle gather and blare, |
| Roused by the feet of running men,
dazed by the lantern-glare. |
| Unbar and let them away for their
lives―the levels drown as they stand, |
Where the flood-flash forces the
sluices aback and the ditches deliver inland.
|
| Ninefold deep to the top of the dykes
the galloping breakers stride, |
| And their overcarried spray is a sea―a
sea on the landward side. |
| Coming, like stallions they paw with
their hooves, going they snatch with their teeth, |
Till the bents and the furze and the
sand are dragged out, and the old-time hurdles beneath.
|
| Bid men gather fuel for fire, the tar,
the oil, and the tow― |
| Flame we shall need, not smoke, in the
dark if the riddled sea-banks go. |
| Bid the ringers watch in the tower (who
knows how the dawn shall prove?) |
Each with his rope between his feet and
the trembling bells above.
|
| Now we can only wait till the day, wait
and apportion our shame. |
| These are the dykes our fathers left,
but we would not look to the same. |
| Time and again were we warned of the
dykes, time and again we delayed: |
Now, it may fall, we have slain our
sons, as our fathers we have betrayed.
|
| Walking along the wrecks of the dykes,
watching the work of the seas! |
| These were the dykes our fathers made
to our great profit and ease. |
| But the peace is gone and the profit is
gone, with the old sure days withdrawn . . . |
That our own houses show as strange
when we come back in the dawn!
|
| Rudyard
Kipling |
Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ If ] [ The Way Through the Woods ] [ Danny Deever ] [ Recessional ] [ Tommy ] [ The White Man's Burden ] [ Chant-Pagan ] [ The Deep Sea Cables ] [ The Dykes ] [ Gunga Din ] [ The Gods of the Copybook Headings ] [ Fuzzy-Wuzzy ] [ The Land ] [ The Old Men ] [ My Rival ] |
