To give this book a dedication The desert sickened,
And lions roared, and dawns of tigers Took hold of Kipling.
A dried-up well of dreadful longing Was gaping, yawning.
They swayed and shivered, rubbing shoulders,
Sleek-skinned and tawny.
Since then continuing forever Their sway in scansion,
They stroll in mist through dewy meadows Dreamt up by Ganges.
Creeping at dawn in pits and hollows Cold sunrays fumble.
Funereal, incense-laden dampness Pervades the jungle.
