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There was such a cartoon, too – probably the whole country remembers, I remembered the surname of Kipling… And I am ashamed to say that I thought he did not write anything else.

Later I found out that he was a military correspondent in Africa in the times of Anglo-Boer War, wrote articles, sketches and stories about India where he was born and lived, and once also wrote a lot of stories…

I read “Indian Stories”, too, – Sveta put in. They are well written, but there were few of them, I found them in some collection along with other authors.

Just the same – I read them in a collection, Andrey continued:

“English Poetry in Russian Translations, 20th century”, and you see, first there is an English variant, then a Russian translation, and there are even 2–3 variants of translation for the most interesting poems… The poems are stunning, but the main surprise is ahead… – So Kipling was a poet as well? – Yes, and a great one! I still remember some of his lines by heart:

Eyes of grey – a sodden quay,

Driving rain and falling tears,

As the steamer wears to sea

In a parting storm of cheers.

Eyes of black-a throbbing keel,

Milky foam to left and right;

Whispered converse near the wheel

In the brilliant tropic night.

Eyes of blue-the Simla Hills

Silvered with the moonlight hoar;

Pleading of the waltz that thrills,

Dies and echoes round Benmore.

Eyes of brown-a dusty plain

Split and parched with heat of June,

Flying hoof and tightened rein,

Hearts that beat the old, old tune.

Maidens of your charity,

Pity my most luckless state.

Four times Cupid's debtor I —

Bankrupt in quadruplicate.

Yet, despite this evil case,

And a maiden showed me grace,

Four-and-forty times would I

Sing the Lovers' Litany:

"Love like ours can never die!"

Yes, this poem is really great… There are few words and it is even short, but very succinct, said Sveta sadly.

He has a lot of poems, but he received the Nobel Prize in 1907 for stories… and he refused to get it! You know, during his whole life he refused all kinds of titles, – remembered Andrey, now distracted from poems, – even the most prestigious one in England: Poet Laureate.

Yes, people were much more modest before… Remember? It seems that Pushkin wrote: What is glory? – A patch on the poet’s sackcloth, said Sveta thoughtfully.

All right, let’s put aside the materialistic side.