TO RUDYARD KIPLING

By Christopher Morley

Lord of our noble English tongue,

Who holdest seizin of our speech,

Whose epic Mowgli first did reach

The valves of all our hearts when young —

Master of every grace and ire,

Wide as the salt-winged fulmar gulls

That circle England's battle hulls,

Your songs have fanned the Imperial fire.

By Oak and Ash and Thorns, by all

Old memories of Sussex sod,

To you we pile the altar clod

And ask a new Recessional.