The Great Game

 

Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised,
With idiot moons and stars retracting stars?
Creep thou between -- thy coming's all unnoised.
Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars.
Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fray
(By Adam's, fathers', own, sin bound alway);
Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say
Which planet mends thy threadbare fate, or mars

(Kim by Rudyard Kipling)

Oh, East is East...

...and West is West, and never the Twain shall meet. At least right up until they do:

Because British.