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Best Famous G K Chesterton Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous G K Chesterton poems. This is a select list of the best famous G K Chesterton poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous G K Chesterton poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of G K Chesterton poems.

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by G K Chesterton | |

The Last Hero

 WE laid him to rest with tenderness;
Homeward we turned in the twilight’s gold;
We thought in ourselves with dumb distress—
All the story of earth is told.
A beautiful word at the last was said: A great deep heart like the hearts of old Went forth; and the speaker had lost the thread, Or all the story of earth was told.
The dust hung over the pale dry ways Dizzily fired with the twilight’s gold, And a bitter remembrance blew in each face How all the story of earth was told.


by G K Chesterton | |

A Prayer in Darkness

 This much, O heaven—if I should brood or rave, 
Pity me not; but let the world be fed, 
Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead, 
Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.
If I dare snarl between this sun and sod, Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own, In sun and rain and fruit in season shown, The shining silence of the scorn of God.
Thank God the stars are set beyond my power, If I must travail in a night of wrath, Thank God my tears will never vex a moth, Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.
Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had Thought it beat brightly, even on—Calvary: And He that hung upon the Torturing Tree Heard all the crickets singing, and was glad.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Sword of Suprise

 Sunder me from my bones, O sword of God 
Till they stand stark and strange as do the trees; 
That I whose heart goes up with the soaring woods 
May marvel as much at these.
Sunder me from my blood that in the dark I hear that red ancestral river run Like branching buried floods that find the sea But never see the sun.
Give me miraculous eyes to see my eyes Those rolling mirrors made alive in me Terrible crystals more incredible Than all the things they see Sunder me from my soul, that I may see The sins like streaming wounds, the life's brave beat Till I shall save myself as I would save A stranger in the street.


by G K Chesterton | |

Eternities

 I cannot count the pebbles in the brook.
Well hath He spoken: "Swear not by thy head.
Thou knowest not the hairs," though He, we read, Writes that wild number in His own strange book.
I cannot count the sands or search the seas, Death cometh, and I leave so much untrod.
Grant my immortal aureole, O my God, And I will name the leaves upon the trees, In heaven I shall stand on gold and glass, Still brooding earth's arithmetic to spell; Or see the fading of the fires of hell Ere I have thanked my God for all the grass.


by G K Chesterton | |

The World State

 Oh, how I love Humanity, 
 With love so pure and pringlish, 
And how I hate the horrid French, 
 Who never will be English! 

The International Idea, 
 The largest and the clearest, 
Is welding all the nations now, 
 Except the one that's nearest.
This compromise has long been known, This scheme of partial pardons, In ethical societies And small suburban gardens— The villas and the chapels where I learned with little labour The way to love my fellow-man And hate my next-door neighbour.


by G K Chesterton | |

The New Omar

 A Book of verses underneath the bough,
Provided that the verses do not scan,
A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and Thou,
Short-haired, all angles, looking like a man.
But let the wine be unfermented, Pale, Of chemicals compounded, God knows how-- This were indeed the Prophet's Paradise, O Paradise were Wilderness enow.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Latest School

 See the flying French depart
Like the bees of Bonaparte,
Swarming up with a most venomous vitality.
Over Baden and Bavaria, And Brighton and Bulgaria, Thus violating Belgian neutrality.
And the injured Prussian may Not unreasonably say "Why, it cannot be so small a nationality Since Brixton and Batavia, Bolivia and Belgravia, Are bursting with the Belgian neutrality.
" By pure Alliteration You may trace this curious nation, And respect this somewhat scattered Principality; When you see a B in Both You may take your Bible oath You are violating Belgian neutrality.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Donkey

 When forests walked and fishes flew 
And figs grew upon thorn, 
Some moment when the moon was blood, 
Then, surely, I was born.
With monstrous head and sickening bray And ears like errant wings— The devil's walking parody Of all four-footed things: The battered outlaw of the earth Of ancient crooked will; Scourge, beat, deride me—I am dumb— I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour— One far fierce hour and sweet: There was a shout around my head And palms about my feet.


by G K Chesterton | |

Elegy In A Country Churchyard

 The men that worked for England
They have their graves at home:
And bees and birds of England
About the cross can roam.
But they that fought for England, Following a falling star, Alas, alas for England They have their graves afar.
And they that rule in England, In stately conclave met, Alas, alas for England, They have no graves as yet.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Song of Quoodle

 They haven't got no noses,
The fallen sons of Eve;
Even the smell of roses
Is not what they supposes;
But more than mind discloses
And more than men believe.
They haven't got no noses, They cannot even tell When door and darkness closes The park a Jew encloses, Where even the law of Moses Will let you steal a smell.
The brilliant smell of water, The brave smell of a stone, The smell of dew and thunder, The old bones buried under, Are things in which they blunder And err, if left alone.
The wind from winter forests, The scent of scentless flowers, The breath of brides' adorning, The smell of snare and warning, The smell of Sunday morning, God gave to us for ours * And Quoodle here discloses All things that Quoodle can, They haven't got no noses, They haven't got no noses, And goodness only knowses The Noselessness of Man.


by G K Chesterton | |

Gold Leaves

 Lo! I am come to autumn, 
When all the leaves are gold; 
Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out 
The year and I are old.
In youth I sought the prince of men, Captain in cosmic wars, Our Titan, even the weeds would show Defiant, to the stars.
But now a great thing in the street Seems any human nod, Where shift in strange democracy The million masks of God.
In youth I sought the golden flower Hidden in wood or wold, But I am come to autumn, When all the leaves are gold.


by G K Chesterton | |

A Cider Song

 To J.
S.
M.
The wine they drink in Paradise They make in Haute Lorraine; God brought it burning from the sod To be a sign and signal rod That they that drink the blood of God Shall never thirst again.
The wine they praise in Paradise They make in Ponterey, The purple wine of Paradise, But we have better at the price; It's wine they praise in Paradise, It's cider that they pray.
The wine they want in Paradise They find in Plodder's End, The apple wine of Herford, Of Hafod Hill and Herford, Where woods went down to Herford, And there I had a friend.
The soft feet of the blessed go In the soft western vales, The road of the silent saints accord, The road from heaven to Herford, Where the apple wood of Herford Goes all the way to Wales.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Englishman

 St George he was for England, 
And before he killed the dragon 
He drank a pint of English ale 
Out of an English flagon.
For though he fast right readily In hair-shirt or in mail, It isn't safe to give him cakes Unless you give him ale.
St George he was for England, And right gallantly set free The lady left for dragon's meat And tied up to a tree; But since he stood for England And knew what England means, Unless you give him bacon You mustn't give him beans.
St George he is for England, And shall wear the shield he wore When we go out in armour With battle-cross before.
But though he is jolly company And very pleased to dine, It isn't safe to give him nuts Unless you give him wine.


by G K Chesterton | |

Who Goes Home?

 In the city set upon slime and loam 
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?' 
And there comes no answer in arch or dome, 
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand, For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home? Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home? For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory .
.
.
Who is for Victory? Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?


by G K Chesterton | |

The Convert

 After one moment when I bowed my head 
And the whole world turned over and came upright, 
And I came out where the old road shone white, 
I walked the ways and heard what all men said, 
Forests of tongues, like autumn leaves unshed, 
Being not unlovable but strange and light; 
Old riddles and new creeds, not in despite 
But softly, as men smile about the dead.
The sages have a hundred maps to give That trace their crawling cosmos like a tree, They rattle reason out through many a sieve That stores the sand and lets the gold go free: And all these things are less than dust to me Because my name is Lazarus and I live.


by G K Chesterton | |

To the Unknown Warrior

 You whom the kings saluted; who refused not
The one great pleasure of ignoble days,
Fame without name and glory without gossip,
Whom no biographer befouls with praise.
Who said of you "Defeated"? In the darkness The dug-out where the limelight never comes, Nor the big drum of Barnum's show can shatter That vibrant stillness after all the drums.
Though the time comes when every Yankee circus Can use our soldiers for its sandwich-men, When those that pay the piper call the tune, You will not dance.
You will not move again.
You will not march for Fatty Arbuckle, Though he have yet a favourable press, Tender as San Francisco to St.
Francis Or all the angels of Los Angeles.
They shall not storm the last unfallen fortress, The lonely castle where uncowed and free, Dwells the unknown and undefeated warrior That did alone defeat Publicity.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Higher Unity

 The Rev.
Isaiah Bunter has disappeared into the interior of the Solomon Islands, and it is feared that he may have been devoured by the natives, as there has been a considerable revival of religious customs among the Polynesians.
--A real paragraph from a real Paper; only the names altered.
It was Isaiah Bunter Who sailed to the world's end, And spread religion in a way That he did not intend.
He gave, if not the gospel-feast, At least a ritual meal; And in a highly painful sense He was devoured with zeal.
And who are we (as Henson says) That we should close the door? And should not Evangelicals All jump at shedding Gore? And many a man will melt in man, Becoming one, not two, When smacks across the startled earth The Kiss of Kikuyu.
When Man is the Turk, and the Atheist, Essene, Erastian, Whig, And the Thug and the Druse and the Catholic And the crew of the Captain's gig.


by G K Chesterton | |

A Child of the Snows

 There is heard a hymn when the panes are dim, 
And never before or again, 
When the nights are strong with a darkness long, 
And the dark is alive with rain.
Never we know but in sleet and in snow, The place where the great fires are, That the midst of the earth is a raging mirth And the heart of the earth a star.
And at night we win to the ancient inn Where the child in the frost is furled, We follow the feet where all souls meet At the inn at the end of the world.
The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red, For the flame of the sun is flown, The gods lie cold where the leaves lie gold, And a Child comes forth alone.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Skeleton

 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.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Unpardonable Sin

 I do not cry, beloved, neither curse.
Silence and strength, these two at least are good.
He gave me sun and start and aught 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 her.
Only this much: if one, deserving well, Touching your thin young hands and making suit, Feel not himself a crawling thing, a brute, Buried and bricked in a forgotten hell; Prophet and poet be he over sod, Prince among angels in the highest place, God help me, I will smite him on the face, Before the glory of the face of God.