Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling
I turned—Heaven knows we women turn too much
To broken reeds, mistaken so for pine
That shame forbids confession—a handle I turned
(The wrong one, said the agent afterwards)
And so flung clean across your English street
Through the shrill-tinkling glass of the shop-front—paused,
Artemis mazed ’mid gauds to catch a man,
And piteous baby-caps and christening-gowns,
The worse for being worn on the radiator.
. . . . .
My cousin Romney judged me from the bench:
Propounding one sleek forty-shillinged law
That takes no count of the Woman’s oversoul.
I should have entered, purred he, by the door—
The man’s retort—the open obvious door—
And since I chose not, he—not he—could change
The man’s rule, not the Woman’s, for the case.
Ten pounds or seven days. . . Just that. . . I paid!