Poem by Rudyard Kipling

Cavaliere Servente

(A Lady laments the loss of her Lover
under the similitude of a Lapdog)

Alas for me, who loved my bow-wow well!
     So well I loved him that methought his heart
     Would never from my beauty's rule depart,
And so, grown certain, grew insatiable.
Now hillward he has fled. I cannot tell
     Whether Mussoorie's maids have fettered him,
     Or whether Tara Devi, cloaked and dim,
Hears his devotions to another belle,
     And other lips that answer tenderly.
Ah me, my bow-wow! I had taught thee skill;
     With lore of ladies' hearts I dowered thee,
Whereon thou hast returned my favours ill,
     And, breaking from my woven chain, art free,
Armed, at my hands, with all the darts that kill. 

1. The First Chantey
2. The Last of the Light Brigade
3. «Limits and Renewals». 1932. 12. The Threshold
4. Merrow Down
5. Justice

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