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The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky The deer to the wholesome wold And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, As it was in the days of old.
Rudyard Kipling
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Rudyard Kipling
Age: 70 †
Born: 1865
Born: December 30
Died: 1936
Died: January 18
Author
Autobiographer
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
War Correspondent
Writer
Bombay
Joseph Rudyard Kipling
R. Kipling
Kipling
Heart
Wholesome
Men
Maids
Life
Swept
Deer
Wold
Wild
Sky
Hawk
Wind
Maid
Days
Hawks
More quotes by Rudyard Kipling
If you do not get what you want, it is a sure sign that you did not seriously want it.
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God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.
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She is intensely human, and lives to look upon life.
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For the sin they do by two and two they must pay for one by one.
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And that is called paying the Dane-geld but we've proved it again and again, that if once you have paid him the Dane-geld you never get rid of the Dane.
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Who has smelled the woodsmoke at twilight, who has seen the campfire burning, who is quick to read the noises of the night?
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Though our smoke may hide the Heavens from your eyes, It will vanish and the stars will shine again, Because, for all our power and weight and size, We are nothing more than children of your brain!
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'E's all'ot sand an' ginger when alive, An''e's generally shammin' when'e's dead.
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Well, if I am a man, a man I must become.
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I wasted my substance, I know I did, on riotous living, so I did, but there's nothing on record to show I did more than my betters have done.
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There is no harm in a man's cub.
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As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race, I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place. Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
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An ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy.
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Four things greater than all things are Women and horses and power and War.
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And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden, You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.
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When man has come to the Turnstiles of Night, all the creeds in the world seem to him wonderfully alike and colorless.
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A tale from which pieces have been raked out is like a fire that has been poked. One does not know the operation has been performed, but everyone feels the effect.
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There's a Legion that never was 'listed, That carries no colours or crest, But, split in a thousand detachments, Is breaking the road for the rest.
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We are the opening verse of the opening page of the chapter of endless possibilities.
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Heaven grant us patience with a man in love.
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