THE RETURNBy Rudyard KiplingPEACE is declared, and I returnTo ’Ackneystadt, but not the same;Things ’ave transpired which made me learnThe size and meanin’ of the game.

I did no more than others did,I don’t know where the change began;I started as a average kid,I finished as a thinkin’ man.

If England was what England seemsAn’ not the England of our dreams,But only putty, brass, an’ paint,’Ow quick we’d drop ’er!

But she ain’t!

Before my gappin’ mouth could speakI ’eard it in my comrade’s tone;I saw it on my neighbour’s cheekBefore I felt it flush my own.

An’ last it come to me—not pride,Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole(If such a term may be applied),The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul.

Rivers at night that cluck an’ jeer,Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,Mountains that never let you near,An’ stars to all eternity;An’ the quick-breathin’ dark that fillsThe ’ollows of the wilderness,When the wind worries through the ’ills—These may ’ave taught me more or less.

Towns without people, ten times took,An’ ten times left an’ burned at last;An’ starvin’ dogs that come to lookFor owners when a column passed;An’ quiet, ’omesick talks betweenMen, met by night, you never knewUntil—’is face—by shellfire seen—Once—an’ struck off.

They taught me, too.

The day’s lay-out—the mornin’ sunBeneath your ’at-brim as you sight;The dinner-’ush from noon till one,An’ the full roar that lasts till night;An’ the pore dead that look so oldAn’ was so young an hour ago,An’ legs tied down before they’re cold—These are the things which make you know.

Also Time runnin’ into years—A thousand Places left be’ind—An’ Men from both two ’emispheresDiscussin’ things of every kind;So much more near than I ’ad known,So much more great than I ’ad guessed—An’ me, like all the rest, alone—But reachin’ out to all the rest!

So ’ath it come to me—not pride,Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole(If such a term may be applied),The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul.

But now, discharged, I fall awayTo do with little things againGawd, ’oo knows all I cannot say,Look after me in Thamesfontein!

If England was what England seemsAn’ not the England of our dreams,But only putty, brass, an’ paint,’Ow quick we’d chuck ’er!

But she ain’t!

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