Textarchiv - G. K. Chesterton
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton
English writer and poet. Born 29 May 1874 in Kensington, London, England. Died 14 June 1936 in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, England.
deThe Deluge
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton/the-deluge
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>Though giant rains put out the sun,<br />
Here stand I for a sign.<br />
Though Earth be filled with waters dark,<br />
My cup is filled with wine.<br />
Tell to the trembling priests that here<br />
Under the deluge rod,<br />
One nameless, tattered, broken man<br />
Stood up and drank to God.</p>
<p>Sun has been where the rain is now,<br />
Bees in the heat to hum,<br />
Haply a humming maiden came,<br />
Now let the Deluge come:<br />
Brown of aureole, green of garb,<br />
Straight as a golden rod,<br />
Drink to the throne of thunder now!<br />
Drink to the wrath of God.</p>
<p>High in the wreck I held the cup,<br />
I clutched my rusty sword,<br />
I cocked my tattered feather<br />
To the glory of the Lord.<br />
Not undone were the heaven and earth,<br />
This hollow world thrown up,<br />
Before one man had stood up straight!<br />
And drained it like a cup.</p>
</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/g-k-chesterton" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">G. K. Chesterton</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1916</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/g-k-chesterton/the-deluge" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="The Deluge" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span>Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000mrbot5860 at https://www.textarchiv.comA Hymn for the Church Militant
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton/a-hymn-for-the-church-militant
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>Great God, that bowest sky and star,<br />
Bow down our towering thoughts to thee,<br />
And grant us in a faltering war<br />
The firm feet of humility.</p>
<p>Lord, we that snatch the swords of flame,<br />
Lord, we that cry about Thy car.<br />
We too are weak with pride and shame,<br />
We too are as our foemen are.</p>
<p>Yea, we are mad as they are mad,<br />
Yea, we are blind as they are blind,<br />
Yea, we are very sick and sad<br />
Who bring good news to all mankind.</p>
<p>The dreadful joy Thy Son has sent<br />
Is heavier than any care;<br />
We find, as Cain his punishment,<br />
Our pardon more than we can bear.</p>
<p>Lord, when we cry Thee far and near<br />
And thunder through all lands unknown<br />
The gospel into every ear,<br />
Lord, let us not forget our own.</p>
<p>Cleanse us from ire of creed or class,<br />
The anger of the idle tings;<br />
Sow in our souls, like living grass,<br />
The laughter of all lowly things.</p>
</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/g-k-chesterton" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">G. K. Chesterton</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1916</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/g-k-chesterton/a-hymn-for-the-church-militant" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="A Hymn for the Church Militant" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span>Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000mrbot5856 at https://www.textarchiv.comLove's Trappist
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton/loves-trappist
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>There is a place where lute and lyre are broken.<br />
Where scrolls are torn and on a wild wind go,<br />
Where tablets stand wiped naked for a token,<br />
Where laurels wither and the daisies grow.</p>
<p>Lo: I too join the brotherhood of silence,<br />
I am Love's Trappist and you ask in vain,<br />
For man through Love's gate, even as through Death's gate,<br />
Goeth alone and comes not back again.</p>
<p>Yet here I pause, look back across the threshold.<br />
Cry to my brethren, though the world be old,<br />
Prophets and sages, questioners and doubters,<br />
O world, old world, the best hath ne'er been told!</p>
</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/g-k-chesterton" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">G. K. Chesterton</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1916</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/g-k-chesterton/loves-trappist" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Love's Trappist" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span>Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000mrbot5848 at https://www.textarchiv.comBay Combe
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton/bay-combe
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>With leaves below and leaves above,<br />
And groping under tree and tree,<br />
I found the home of my true love,<br />
Who is a wandering home for me.</p>
<p>Who, lost in ruined worlds aloof,<br />
Bore the dread dove wings like a roof;<br />
Who, past the last lost stars of space<br />
Carried the fire-light on her face.</p>
<p>Who, passing as in idle hours,<br />
Tamed the wild weeds to garden flowers;<br />
Stroked the strange whirlwind's whirring wings,<br />
And made the comets homely things.</p>
<p>Where she went by upon her way<br />
The dark was dearer than the day;<br />
Where she paused in heaven or hell,<br />
The whole world's tale had ended well.</p>
<p>With leaves below and leaves above.<br />
And groping under tree and tree,<br />
I found the home of my true love,<br />
Who is a wandering home for me.</p>
<p>Where she was flung, above, beneath,<br />
By the rude dance of life and death,<br />
Grow she at Gotham—die at Rome,<br />
Between the pine trees is her home.</p>
<p>In some strange town, some silver morn,<br />
She may have wandered to be born;<br />
Stopped at some motley crowd impressed,<br />
And called them kinsfolk for a jest.</p>
<p>If we again En goodness thrive,<br />
And the dead saints become alive,<br />
Then pedants bald and parchments brown<br />
May claim her blood for London town.</p>
<p>But leaves below and leaves above.<br />
And groping under tree and tree,<br />
I found the home of my true love,<br />
Who is a wandering home for me.</p>
<p>The great gravestone she may pass by,<br />
And without noticing, may die;<br />
The streets of silver Heaven may tread,<br />
With her grey awful eyes unfed.</p>
<p>The city of great peace in pain<br />
May pass, until she find again<br />
This little house of holm and fir<br />
God built before the stars for her.</p>
<p>Here in the fallen leaves is furled<br />
Her secret centre of the world.<br />
We sit and feel in dusk and dun<br />
The stars swing round us like a sun.</p>
<p>For leaves below and leaves above.<br />
And groping under tree and tree,<br />
I found the home of my true love.<br />
Who is a wandering home for me.</p>
</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/g-k-chesterton" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">G. K. Chesterton</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1916</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/g-k-chesterton/bay-combe" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Bay Combe" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span>Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000mrbot5850 at https://www.textarchiv.comLepanto
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton/lepanto
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,<br />
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;<br />
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,<br />
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,<br />
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,<br />
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shake with his ships.<br />
They have dared the white republics up the cape of Italy,<br />
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,<br />
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,<br />
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.<br />
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;<br />
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;<br />
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,<br />
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.</p>
<p>Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,<br />
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,<br />
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,<br />
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,<br />
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,<br />
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.<br />
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,<br />
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.</p>
<p>Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,<br />
Don John of Austria is going to the war,<br />
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold<br />
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,<br />
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,<br />
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.<br />
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled.<br />
Spuming of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,<br />
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.<br />
Love-light of Spain—hurrah!<br />
Death-light of Africa!<br />
Don John of Austria<br />
Is riding to the sea.</p>
<p>Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,<br />
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)<br />
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,<br />
His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.<br />
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,<br />
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees,<br />
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring<br />
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.<br />
Giants and the Genii,<br />
Multiplex of wing and eye,<br />
Whose strong obedience broke the sky<br />
When Solomon was king.</p>
<p>They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,<br />
From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;<br />
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea<br />
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be;<br />
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,<br />
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;<br />
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,—<br />
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.<br />
And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,<br />
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,<br />
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,<br />
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.<br />
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,<br />
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done,<br />
But a noise is in 'the mountains, in the mountains, and I know<br />
The voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago:<br />
It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;<br />
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate!<br />
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,<br />
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."<br />
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,<br />
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)<br />
Sudden and still—hurrah!<br />
Bolt from Iberia!<br />
Don John of Austria<br />
Is gone by Alcalar.</p>
<p>St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north<br />
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)<br />
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift<br />
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.<br />
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;<br />
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;<br />
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes<br />
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,<br />
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty<br />
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,<br />
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,<br />
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.<br />
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse<br />
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,<br />
Trumpet that sayeth ha!<br />
Domino gloria!<br />
Don John of Austria<br />
Is shouting to the ships.</p>
<p>King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck<br />
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)<br />
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,<br />
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.<br />
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,<br />
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very<br />
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey<br />
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day.<br />
And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,<br />
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.<br />
Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed—Booms<br />
away past Italy the rumour of his raid.<br />
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!<br />
Gun upon gun, hurrah!<br />
Don John of Austria<br />
Has loosed the cannonade.</p>
<p>The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,<br />
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)<br />
The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,<br />
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.<br />
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea<br />
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;<br />
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,<br />
They veil the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;<br />
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,<br />
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,<br />
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines<br />
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.<br />
They are lost like slaves that swat, and in the skies of morning hung<br />
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.<br />
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on<br />
Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.<br />
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell<br />
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,<br />
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign(But<br />
Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)<br />
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,<br />
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,<br />
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,<br />
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,<br />
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sex<br />
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.<br />
Vivat Hispania!<br />
Domino Gloria!<br />
Don John of Austria<br />
Has set his people free!</p>
<p>Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath<br />
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)<br />
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,<br />
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,<br />
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....<br />
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)</p>
</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/g-k-chesterton" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">G. K. Chesterton</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1916</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/g-k-chesterton/lepanto" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Lepanto" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span>Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000mrbot5852 at https://www.textarchiv.comSong
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton/song
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>There is heard a hymn when the panes dim<br />
And never before or again,<br />
When the nights are strong with a darkness long,<br />
And the dark is alive with rain.</p>
<p>Never we know but in sleet and in snow,<br />
The place where the great fires are,<br />
That the midst of the earth is a raging mirth<br />
And the heart of the earth a star.</p>
<p>And at night we win to the ancient inn<br />
Where the child in the frost is furled,<br />
We follow the feet where all souls meet<br />
At the inn at the end of the world.</p>
<p>The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red,<br />
For the flame of the sun is flown.<br />
The gods lie cold where the leaves lie gold.<br />
And a Child comes forth alone.</p>
</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/g-k-chesterton" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">G. K. Chesterton</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1916</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/g-k-chesterton/song" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Song" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span>Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000mrbot5851 at https://www.textarchiv.comThe March of The Black Mountain
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton/the-march-of-the-black-mountain
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>What will there be to remember<br />
Of us in the days to be?<br />
Whose faith was a trodden ember<br />
And even our doubt not free;<br />
Parliaments built of paper,<br />
And the soft swords of gold<br />
That twist like a waxen taper<br />
In the weak aggressor's hold;<br />
A hush around Hunger, slaying<br />
A city of serfs unfed;<br />
What shall we leave for a saying<br />
To praise us when we are dead?<br />
But men shall remember the Mountain<br />
That broke its forest chains,<br />
And men shall remember the Mountain<br />
When it arches against the plains:<br />
And christen their children from it<br />
And season and ship and street,<br />
When the Mountain came to Mahomet<br />
And looked small before his feet.</p>
<p>His head was as high as the crescent<br />
Of the moon that seemed his crown,<br />
And on glory of past and present<br />
The light of his eyes looked down;<br />
One hand went out to the morning<br />
Over Brahmin and Buddhist slain,<br />
And one to the West in scorning<br />
To point at the scars of Spain;<br />
One foot on the hills for warden<br />
By the little Mountain trod;<br />
And one was in a garden<br />
And stood on the grave of God.<br />
But men shall remember the Mountain,<br />
Though it fall down like a tree,<br />
They shall see the sign of the Mountain<br />
Faith cast into the sea;<br />
Though the crooked swords overcome it<br />
And the Crooked Moon ride free,<br />
When the Mountain comes to Mahomet<br />
It has more life than he.</p>
<p>But what will there be to remember<br />
Or what will there be to see—<br />
Though our towns through a long November<br />
Abide to the end and be?<br />
Strength of slave and mechanic<br />
Whose iron is ruled by gold,<br />
Peace of immortal panic,<br />
Love that is hate grown cold—<br />
Are these a bribe or a warning<br />
That we turn not to the sun,<br />
Nor look on the lands of morning<br />
Where deeds at last are done?<br />
Where men shall remember the Mountain<br />
When truth forgets the plain—<br />
And walk in the way of the Mountain<br />
That did not fail in vain;<br />
Death and eclipse and comet,<br />
Thunder and seals that rend:<br />
When the Mountain came to Mahomet;<br />
Because it was the end.</p>
</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/g-k-chesterton" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">G. K. Chesterton</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1913</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/g-k-chesterton/the-march-of-the-black-mountain" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="The March of The Black Mountain" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span>Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000mrbot5859 at https://www.textarchiv.comMusic
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton/music
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>Sounding brass and tinkling cymbal,<br />
He that made me sealed my ears,<br />
And the pomp of gorgeous noises,<br />
Waves of triumph, waves of tears,</p>
<p>Thundered empty round and past me,<br />
Shattered, lost for ever more,<br />
Ancient gold of pride and passion,<br />
Wrecked like treasure on a shore.</p>
<p>But I saw her cheek and forehead<br />
Change, as at a spoken word,<br />
And I saw her head uplifted<br />
Like a lily to the Lord.</p>
<p>Nought is lost, but all transmuted,<br />
Ears are sealed, yet eyes have seen;<br />
Saw her smiles (O soul be worthy!),<br />
Saw her tears (O heart be clean!).</p>
</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/g-k-chesterton" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">G. K. Chesterton</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1916</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/g-k-chesterton/music" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Music" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span>Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000mrbot5858 at https://www.textarchiv.comThe Wise Men
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton/the-wise-men
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>Step softly, under snow or rain,<br />
To find the place where men can pray;<br />
The way is all so very plain<br />
That we may lose the way.</p>
<p>Oh, we have learnt to peer and pore<br />
On tortured puzzles from our youth,<br />
We know all labyrinthine lore,<br />
We are the three wise mert of yore,<br />
And we know all things but the truth.</p>
<p>We have gone round and round the hill,<br />
And lost the wood among the trees,<br />
And learnt long names for every ill,<br />
And served the mad gods, naming still<br />
The Furies the Eumenides.</p>
<p>The gods of violence took the veil<br />
Of vision and philosophy,<br />
The Serpent that brought all men bale,<br />
He bites his own accursed tail,<br />
And calls himself Eternity.</p>
<p>Go humbly ... it has hailed and snowed ...<br />
With voices low and lanterns lit;<br />
So very simple is the road,<br />
That we may stray from it.</p>
<p>The world grows terrible and white,<br />
And blinding white the breaking day;<br />
We walk bewildered in the light,<br />
For something is too large for sight,<br />
And something much too plain to say.</p>
<p>The Child that was ere worlds begun<br />
(... We need but walk a little way,<br />
We need but see a latch undone,...)<br />
The Child that played with moon and sun<br />
Is playing with a little hay.</p>
<p>The house from which the heavens are fed,<br />
The old strange house that is our own,<br />
Where tricks of words are never said.<br />
And Mercy is as plain as bread,<br />
And Honour is as hard as stone.</p>
<p>Go humbly; humble are the skies,<br />
And low and large and fierce the Star;<br />
So very near the Manger lies<br />
That we may travel far.</p>
<p>Hark! Laughter like a lion wakes<br />
To roar to the resounding plain,<br />
And the whole heaven shouts and shakes,<br />
For God Himself is born again,<br />
And we are little children walking<br />
Through the snow and rain.</p>
</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/g-k-chesterton" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">G. K. Chesterton</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1916</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/g-k-chesterton/the-wise-men" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="The Wise Men" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span>Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000mrbot5857 at https://www.textarchiv.comTo M. E. W.
https://www.textarchiv.com/g-k-chesterton/to-m-e-w
<div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>Words, for alas my trade is words, a barren burst of rhyme,<br />
Rubbed by a hundred rhymesters, battered a thousand times,<br />
Take them, you, that smile on strings, those nobler sounds than mine,<br />
The words that never lie, or brag, or flatter, or malign.</p>
<p>I give a hand to my lady, another to my friend,<br />
To whom you too have given a hand; and so before the end<br />
We four may pray, for all the years, whatever suns beset,<br />
The sole two prayers worth praying--to live and not forget.</p>
<p>The pale leaf falls in pallor, but the green leaf turns to gold;<br />
We that have found it good to be young shall find it good to be old;<br />
Life that bringeth the marriage bell, the cradle and the grave,<br />
Life that is mean to the mean of heart, and only brave to the brave.</p>
<p>In the calm of the last white winter, when all the past is ours,<br />
Old tears are frozen as jewels, old storms frosted as flowers.<br />
Dear Lady, may we meet again, stand up again, we four,<br />
Beneath the burden of the years, and praise the earth once more.</p>
</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/g-k-chesterton" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">G. K. Chesterton</a></div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/g-k-chesterton/to-m-e-w" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="To M. E. W." class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span>Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000mrbot5855 at https://www.textarchiv.com