'The true Soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because He loves what is behind him.' -G. K. Chesterton

17 November 2012

Sunday Kipling

The last of the new driveway is almost ready for concrete. Tuesday if the stars stay aligned. Four and a half yards. One last large pour and we'll be done with that stuff. For a while at least. I hope.

We'll be BBQing today as we do most Sundays. We've got some lovely Tri Tip that's just begging to be turned into Sunday dinner. Hey Sarge. What are you and MIL doing tomorrow 5ish?

It seems I've lost my enthusiasm for sports. Just can't seem to get into them right now. Perhaps there's something else intruding on my thoughts and time. Can't imagine what that would be.

This day promises to be warm and sunny. A good day to be alive and an American. Hug your loved ones and give all your doggies and kitties a nice treat. It's good for the soul.


The Wage-Slaves
Oh, glorious are the guarded heights
  Where guardian souls abide--
Self-exiled from our gross delights--
  Above, beyond, outside:
An ampler arc their spirit swings--
  Commands a juster view--
We have their word for all these things,
   No doubt their words are true.

Yet we, the bond slaves of our day,
  Whom dirt and danger press--
Co-heirs of insolence,  delay,
  And leagued unfaithfulness--
Such is our need must seek indeed
  And, having found, engage
The men who merely do the work
  For which they draw the wage.

From forge and farm and mine and bench,
  Deck, altar, outpost lone--
Mill, school, battalion, counter, trench,
  Rail, senate, sheepfold, throne--
Creation's cry goes up on high
  From age to cheated age:
"Send us the men who do the work
   "For which they draw the wage!"

Words cannot help nor wit achieve,
   Nor e'en the all-gifted fool,
Too weak to enter, bide, or leave
  The lists he cannot rule.
Beneath the sun we count on none
  Our evil to assuage,
Except the men that do the work
  For which they draw the wage.

When through the Gates of Stress and Strain
  Comes forth the vast Event--
The simple, sheer, sufficing, sane
  Result of labour spent--
They that have wrought the end unthought
  Be neither saint nor sage,
But only men who did the work
  For which they drew the wage.

Wherefore to these the Fates shall bend
  (And all old idle things )
Werefore on these shall Power attend
  Beyond the grip of kings:
Each in his place, by right, not grace,
  Shall rule his heritage--
The men who simply do the work
  For which they draw the wage.

Not such as scorn the loitering street,
  Or waste, to earth its praise,
Their noontide's unreturning heat
  About their morning ways;
But such as dower each mortgaged hour
  Alike with clean courage--
Even the men who do the work
  For which they draw the wage--
Men, like to Gods, that do the work
  For which they draw the wage--
Begin-continue-close that work
  For which they draw the wage!


Old NFO said...

Good idea, and that poem sure does hit home... sigh

Six said...

That line about bond slaves seemed appropriate to me NFO. Seems we've become slaves to the takers and the democrats. But I repeat myself.

agirlandhergun said...

I can't get into sports either. Not that I have time, but Sundays we always enjoyed the games. Now, I can barely muster up the slightest give a hoot.

Six said...

That's where I am too Girl. Even the 49ers. I suppose it's a sign of the times.