But the first poem memorised was only six lines long, and though the exact words escape me, "it" is very much with me, and very apt in a year commemorating the start of the First World War. The poem is by Rudyard Kipling, a writer with a sad childhood, sent away by his parents in India, to England to school, at the tender age of 6. The personal history of the writer is very much with me too.
A Dead Statesman
I could not dig: I dared not rob:
Therefore I lied to please the mob.
Now all my lies are proved untrue
And I must face the men I slew.
What tale shall serve me here among
Mine angry and defrauded young?
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