Kipling Speaks

Our poet for this term is Rudyard Kipling.

We’ve been learning about his terribly sad childhood where his parents literally hired a family to raise Kipling and his sister when he was only six so that they wouldn’t be burdened with the responsibility.

As an adult, Kipling’s daughter died when she was only six and his son was killed in the World War.

It didn’t all add up to a joy-filled life or a smooth ride.

Yes, he earned fame for his writing during his own lifetime and he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Highs and lows, the man had, for certain.

I’ve been reading his poem “If -” to the kids each week when we study Kipling.  The copy I’ve been using to read from is a very old and very battered, taped together, poetry collection.  I’ve had it since seventh grade.  I actually think it might have belonged to my friend Sara.  There are still brightly colored paper clips marking my favorite poems from junior high and high school.  (Does that make me a nerd – a poetry loving high school student?)

I’ve always liked that poem.  And Kipling.  (One of the family dogs from long ago was named Kipling.)

I don’t know if you’ve ever read his poem “If -” but I think it’s so good that you should.

So.

I’m sharing it now for you.

________________

If –

If you can keep your head when all about you

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

 

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!