The Wild Knight and Other Poems - Гилберт Кит Честертон

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If a fixed fire hung in the air

      To warm me one day through,

       If deep green hair grew on great hills,

      I know what I should do.

       In dark I lie: dreaming that there

      Are great eyes cold or kind,

       And twisted streets and silent doors,

      And living men behind.

       Let storm-clouds come: better an hour,

      And leave to weep and fight,

       Than all the ages I have ruled

      The empires of the night.

       I think that if they gave me leave

      Within that world to stand,

       I would be good through all the day

      I spent in fairyland.

       They should not hear a word from me

      Of selfishness or scorn,

       If only I could find the door,

      If only I were born.

      The World’s Lover

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      My eyes are full of lonely mirth:

      Reeling with want and worn with scars,

       For pride of every stone on earth,

      I shake my spear at all the stars.

       A live bat beats my crest above,

      Lean foxes nose where I have trod,

       And on my naked face the love

      Which is the loneliness of God.

       Outlawed: since that great day gone by--

      When before prince and pope and queen

       I stood and spoke a blasphemy--

      'Behold the summer leaves are green.'

       They cursed me: what was that to me

      Who in that summer darkness furled,

       With but an owl and snail to see,

      Had blessed and conquered all the world?

       They bound me to the scourging-stake,

      They laid their whips of thorn on me;

       I wept to see the green rods break,

      Though blood be beautiful to see.

       Beneath the gallows' foot abhorred

      The crowds cry 'Crucify!' and 'Kill!'

       Higher the priests sing, 'Praise the Lord,

      The warlock dies'; and higher still

       Shall heaven and earth hear one cry sent

      Even from the hideous gibbet height,

       'Praise to the Lord Omnipotent,

      The vultures have a feast to-night.'

      The Skeleton

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      Chattering finch and water-fly

       Are not merrier than I;

       Here among the flowers I lie

       Laughing everlastingly.

       No: I may not tell the best;

       Surely, friends, I might have guessed

       Death was but the good King's jest,

       It was hid so carefully.

      A Chord of Colour

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      My Lady clad herself in grey,

       That caught and clung about her throat;

       Then all the long grey winter day

       On me a living splendour smote;

       And why grey palmers holy are,

       And why grey minsters great in story,

       And grey skies ring the morning star,

       And grey hairs are a crown of glory.

       My Lady clad herself in green,

       Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;

       Then round my spirit spread, I ween,

       A splendour of forgotten grass.

       Then all that dropped of stem or sod,

       Hoarded as emeralds might be,

       I bowed to every bush, and trod

       Amid the live grass fearfully.

       My Lady clad herself in blue,

       Then on me, like the seer long gone,

       The likeness of a sapphire grew,

       The throne of him that sat thereon.

       Then knew I why the Fashioner

       Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea;

       And ere 'twas good enough for her,

       He tried it on Eternity.

       Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree

       Sat, like an owl, the evil sage:

       'The World's a bubble,' solemnly

       He read, and turned a second page.

       'A bubble, then, old crow,' I cried,

       'God keep you in your weary wit!

       'A bubble--have you ever spied

       'The colours I have seen on it?'

      The Happy Man

       Table of Contents

      To teach the grey earth like a child,

       To bid the heavens repent,

       I only ask from Fate the gift

       Of one man well content.

       Him will I find: though when in vain

       I search the feast and mart,

       The fading flowers of liberty,

       The painted masks of art.

       I only find him at the last,

       On one old hill where nod

       Golgotha's ghastly trinity-

       Three persons and one god.

      The Unpardonable Sin

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      I do not cry, beloved, neither curse.

       Silence and strength, these two at least are good.

       He gave me sun and stars and ought He could,

       But not a woman's love; for that is hers.

       He sealed her heart from sage and questioner-

       Yea, with seven seals, as he has sealed the grave.

       And if she give it to a drunken slave,

       The Day of Judgment shall not challenge

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