The eldest son bestrides him,
And the pretty daughter rides him,
And I meet him oft o' mornings on the Course;
And there kindles in my bosom
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This poem is a slap in the face to proponents of 'free verse', who claim that rhyme and meter hinder expression, and I cheer it loudly! Kipling plays with the strictures that free verse poets so abhor like a concert pianist- striking his syllables out like notes and chords with a complex precision that yet so clearly evokes images and emotions. This is one of those poems that is meant to read aloud, with feeling, to the delight of both performer and listener.
Wow this is fine poetry