Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...

PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member and block ads forever...while getting many more great features. Take a look! Thank you!

My Rival

 I go to concert, party, ball --
 What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
 And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right They burn before her shrine; And that's because I'm seventeen And She is forty-nine.
I cannot check my girlish blush, My color comes and goes; I redden to my finger-tips, And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be, And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen Is fixed at forty-nine.
I wish I had Her constant cheek; I wish that I could sing All sorts of funny little songs, Not quite the proper thing.
I'm very gauche and very shy, Her jokes aren't in my line; And, worst of all, I'm seventeen While She is forty-nine.
The young men come, the young men go Each pink and white and neat, She's older than their mothers, but They grovel at Her feet.
They walk beside Her 'rickshaw wheels -- None ever walk by mine; And that's because I'm seventeen And She is foty-nine.
She rides with half a dozen men, (She calls them "boys" and "mashers") I trot along the Mall alone; My prettiest frocks and sashes Don't help to fill my programme-card, And vainly I repine From ten to two A.
Ah me! Would I were forty-nine! She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear," And "sweet retiring maid.
" I'm always at the back, I know, She puts me in the shade.
She introduces me to men, "Cast" lovers, I opine, For sixty takes to seventeen, Nineteen to foty-nine.
But even She must older grow And end Her dancing days, She can't go on forever so At concerts, balls and plays.
One ray of priceless hope I see Before my footsteps shine; Just think, that She'll be eighty-one When I am forty-nine.

Poem by
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - My RivalEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...

Top Rudyard Kipling Poems

Analysis and Comments on My Rival

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem My Rival here.