Poems by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

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All round they murmur, 'O profane,
That night the whole world mingled,
My Lady clad herself in grey,
The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,
He was, through boyhood's storm and shower,
All things grew upwards, foul and fair:
All day the nations climb and crawl and pray
Why should I care for the Ages
Fair faces crowd on Christmas night
"A drove of cattle came into a village called Swords; and was stopped by the rioters."--Daily Paper.
Blessings there are of cradle and of clan,
This is the weird of a world-old folk,
Another tattered rhymster in the ring,
On must we go: we search dead leaves,
How many million stars there be,
I saw an old man like a child,
If trees were tall and grasses short,
A mountainous and mystic brute
Before the grass grew over me,
There is one sin: to call a green leaf grey,
Clear was the night: the moon was young:
I cannot count the pebbles in the brook.
The sun was black with judgment, and the moon
Lo! I am come to autumn,
Between a meadow and a cloud that sped
If the stars fell; night's nameless dreams
This circled cosmos whereof man is god
I Cut a staff in a churchyard copse,
Observe these Pirates bold and gay,
Impetuously I sprang from bed,
Stilton, thou shouldst be living at this hour
A child sits in a sunny place,
A bird flew out at the break of day
Five kings rule o'er the Amorite,
Dedication
Through what fierce incarnations, furled
Witness all: that unrepenting,
When fishes flew and forests walked
Name not his deed: in shuddering and in haste
Though the whole heaven be one-eyed with the moon,
We watched you building, stone by stone,
Dark the sea was: but I saw him,
To teach the grey earth like a child,
'Elder father, though thine eyes
The still sweet meadows shimmered: and I stood
Many have Earth's lovers been,
Laugh your best, O blazoned forests,
A wan new garment of young green
The violet scent is sacred
I dreamed a dream of heaven, white as frost,
I love to see the little stars
Priest, is any song-bird stricken?
You that have snarled through the ages, take your answer and go--
'What of vile dust?' the preacher said.
Chattering finch and water-fly
The World is ours till sunset,
I plod and peer amid mean sounds and shapes,
Lo! very fair is she who knows the ways
I do not cry, beloved, neither curse.
The wasting thistle whitens on my crest,
A dark manor-house shuttered and unlighted, outlined against a pale sunset: in front a large, but neglected, garden. To the right, in the foreground, the porch of a chapel, with coloured windows lighted. Hymns within.
We came behind him by the wall,
My eyes are full of lonely mirth:
I had grown weary of him; of his breath
We will not let thee be, for thou art ours.
For every tiny town or place
Lift up your heads: in life, in death,
The vision of a haloed host
A wan sky greener than the lawn,

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