Poems by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Sorted by title, showing title and first line

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,
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.
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.
The wasting thistle whitens on my crest,
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,