Kipling’s poems show the lack of introspection of a man seemingly without an inner life. He had an inner life, often a movingly sad one (his son was killed on the battlefield at Loos), but the poems have the emotional range of a schoolboy. They were written, unlike most poetry now, for purposes other than the display of private disappointments and despairs. Even when the subject was love, the poems are derivative or wearyingly sentimental, as if written by committee — but then, in a way, Kipling was a committee. The world that adored his poems is not our world, its prejudices no longer our prejudices. That world is gone and not likely to return.