ay
Through vale of sorrow up to brighter day.

By other path this height is ne'er attained,
Nor books nor schools its hidden wealth unveil.
Philosophy and art have treasures gained,
But in this quest they must forever fail--
Experience only can the gift impart,
Bring needed light and regulate the heart.

To solace those who grieve one must have felt
In his own heart the rending pangs of pain;
The heart that suffers not will never melt
At others' woes, though free from selfish stain;
What we have felt and seen we truly know,
And thus endowed, our tears for others flow.

So leave thy much-loved lyre awhile unstrung
Till health again invigorate thy frame;
With brain renewed, with vigorous heart and lung
Take up thy work once more, and greater fame--
A richer man by far than e'er before,
For thou hast treasure on the other shore.

[Footnote 1: These lines were written directly after Mr. Kipling's
recovery from severe illness.]

MEN BELOW DECK

The battleship its anchor weighs,
And belches forth its thunder;
Its commodore all classes praise,
And at his victories wonder;
And well they may--for braver man
Ne'er wielded sword or sabre;
But tell me, brother, if you can,
Who did the lowly labor.

Below the deck in engine-room,
As oilers and coal-heavers?
Amidst the smut and ghastly gloom,
Who worked the iron levers?
And thus it is in other lines;
Brave men are often hidden
"Below the deck," in shops and mines,
To higher plane unbidden.

The men on deck the praise receive,
But meagre thanks the others;
As honest men they seldom grieve,
And envy not their brothers;
A common cause they gladly serve,
Though in a lowly station,
From path of duty never swerve--
Loyal to God and nation.

For when the smoke has cleared away,
And din of battle ended,
On upper deck, in bright array,
By angel bands attended,
The whole ship's crew will then appear,
From high and lowly station,
And each the words "well done" shall hear,
'Midst shouts of acclamation.

"OTHERS SAVE WITH FEAR"

Some men there are who stand so straight,
So equipoised, that others' fate
Seems to depend on their behest;
And useless all our every quest
To gain perfection or renown,
Unless we touch the flowing gown
Of these high-priests, whose shadows fall
Within themselves, if fall at all.

Others are not as straight as these,
But more like rough and gnarled trees;
But little beauty