The Song Of The Sword - To Rudyard Kipling

The Sword     Singing -     The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword     Clanging imperious     Forth from Time's battlements     His ancient and triumphing Song.     In the beginning,     Ere God inspired Himself     Into the clay thing     Thumbed to His image,     The vacant, the naked shell     Soon to be Man:     Thoughtful He pondered it,     Prone there and impotent,     Fragile, inviting     Attack and discomfiture;     Then, with a smile -     As He heard in the Thunder     That laughed over Eden     The voice of the Trumpet,     The iron Beneficence,     Calling his dooms     To the Winds of the world -     Stooping, He drew     On the sand with His finger     A shape for a sign     Of his way to the eyes     That in wonder should waken,     For a proof of His will     To the breaking intelligence.     That was the birth of me:     I am the Sword.     Bleak and lean, grey and cruel,     Short-hilted, long shafted,     I froze into steel;     And the blood of my elder,     His hand on the hafts of me,     Sprang like a wave     In the wind, as the sense     Of his strength grew to ecstasy;     Glowed like a coal     In the throat of the furnace;     As he knew me and named me     The War-Thing, the Comrade,     Father of honour     And giver of kingship,     The fame-smith, the song-master,     Bringer of women     On fire at his hands     For the pride of fulfilment,     PRIEST (saith the Lord)     OF HIS MARRIAGE WITH VICTORY     Ho! then, the Trumpet,     Handmaid of heroes,     Calling the peers     To the place of espousals!     Ho! then, the splendour     And glare of my ministry,     Clothing the earth     With a livery of lightnings!     Ho! then, the music     Of battles in onset,     And ruining armours,     And God's gift returning     In fury to God!     Thrilling and keen     As the song of the winter stars,     Ho! then, the sound     Of my voice, the implacable     Angel of Destiny! -     I am the Sword.     Heroes, my children,     Follow, O, follow me!     Follow, exulting     In the great light that breaks     From the sacred Companionship!     Thrust through the fatuous,     Thrust through the fungous brood,     Spawned in my shadow     And gross with my gift!     Thrust through, and hearken     O, hark, to the Trumpet,     The Virgin of Battles,     Calling, still calling you     Into the Presence,     Sons of the Judgment,     Pure wafts of the Will!     Edged to annihilate,     Hilted with government,     Follow, O, follow me,     Till the waste places     All the grey globe over     Ooze, as the honeycomb     Drips, with the sweetness     Distilled of my strength,     And, teeming in peace     Through the wrath of my coming,     They give back in beauty     The dread and the anguish     They had of me visitant!     Follow, O follow, then,     Heroes, my harvesters!     Where the tall grain is ripe     Thrust in your sickles!     Stripped and adust     In a stubble of empire,     Scything and binding     The full sheaves of sovranty:     Thus, O, thus gloriously,     Shall you fulfil yourselves!     Thus, O, thus mightily,     Show yourselves sons of mine -     Yea, and win grace of me:     I am the Sword!     I am the feast-maker:     Hark, through a noise     Of the screaming of eagles,     Hark how the Trumpet,     The mistress of mistresses,     Calls, silver-throated     And stern, where the tables     Are spread, and the meal     Of the Lord is in hand!     Driving the darkness,     Even as the banners     And spears of the Morning;     Sifting the nations,     The slag from the metal,     The waste and the weak     From the fit and the strong;     Fighting the brute,     The abysmal Fecundity;     Checking the gross,     Multitudinous blunders,     The groping, the purblind     Excesses in service     Of the Womb universal,     The absolute drudge;     Firing the charactry     Carved on the World,     The miraculous gem     In the seal-ring that burns     On the hand of the Master -     Yea! and authority     Flames through the dim,     Unappeasable Grisliness     Prone down the nethermost     Chasms of the Void! -     Clear singing, clean slicing;     Sweet spoken, soft finishing;     Making death beautiful,     Life but a coin     To be staked in the pastime     Whose playing is more     Than the transfer of being;     Arch-anarch, chief builder,     Prince and evangelist,     I am the Will of God:     I am the Sword.     The Sword     Singing -     The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword     Clanging majestical,     As from the starry-staired     Courts of the primal Supremacy,     His high, irresistible song.