The little one sleeps in its cradle, I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand. The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top. The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen. The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready, The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon, The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged, The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow.
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All through his lifetime, even Kipling started en route for resent the poem's popularity, saying it had been anthologised to weariness. They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars at a distance, Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: It's striking, but is it Art? They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought all the rage the west, Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest— Had rest till the dank blank-canvas be born when the dove was preened en route for start, And the Devil bubbled beneath the keel: It's human, but is it Art? Rudyard Kipling Tomlinson At once Tomlinson gave up the ghost by his house in Berkeley Square, After that a Spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair— A Spirit gripped him by the hair and carried him far absent, Till he heard as the bellow of a rain-fed ford the bellow of the Milky Way: Till he heard the roar of the Chalky Way die down and drone after that cease, And they came to the Gate within the Wall where Peter holds the keys.