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Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees, So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away!
Rudyard Kipling
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Rudyard Kipling
Age: 70 †
Born: 1865
Born: December 30
Died: 1936
Died: January 18
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Autobiographer
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
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Bombay
Joseph Rudyard Kipling
R. Kipling
Kipling
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Garden
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Wash
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Adam
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I have no gift of words, but I speak the truth.
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The masterless man . . . afflicted with the magic of the necessary words. . . . Words that may become alive and walk up and down in the hearts of the hearers.
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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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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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God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.
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It thrilled through him when he first felt the keel answer to his hand on the spokes and slide over the long hollows as the foresail scythed back and forth against the blue sky.
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When the Man waked up he said, 'What is Wild Dog doing here?' And the Woman said, 'His name is not Wild Dog any more, but the First Friend, because he will be our friend for always and always and always.'
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There rise her timeless capitals of empires daily born, whose plinths are laid at midnight and whose streets are packed at morn and here come tired youths and maids that feign to love or sin in tones like rusty razor blades to tunes like smitten tin.
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They copied all they could copy, But they couldn't copy my mind And I left them sweatin' and stealin', A year and a half behind.
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