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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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Written 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.


Written 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.


Written by G K Chesterton | |

The Song of the Oak

 The Druids waved their golden knives 
And danced around the Oak 
When they had sacrificed a man; 
But though the learned search and scan 
No single modern person can 
Entirely see the joke.
But though they cut the throats of men They cut not down the tree, And from the blood the saplings spring Of oak-woods yet to be.
But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He rots the tree as ivy would, He clings and crawls as ivy would About the sacred tree.
King Charles he fled from Worcester fight And hid him in the Oak; In convent schools no man of tact Would trace and praise his every act, Or argue that he was in fact A strict and sainted bloke.
But not by him the sacred woods Have lost their fancies free, And though he was extremely big He did not break the tree.
But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He breaks the tree as ivy would, And eats the woods as ivy would Between us and the sea.
Great Collingwood walked down the glade And flung the acorns free, That oaks might still be in the grove As oaken as the beams above, When the great Lover sailors love Was kissed by Death at sea.
But though for him the oak-trees fell To build the oaken ships, The woodman worshipped what he smote And honoured even the chips.
But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He hates the tree as ivy would, As the dragon of the ivy would That has us in his grips.


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Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written by G K Chesterton | |

The Song of Education

 III.
For the Creche Form 8277059, Sub-Section K I remember my mother, the day that we met, A thing I shall never entirely forget; And I toy with the fancy that, young as I am, I should know her again if we met in a tram.
But mother is happy in turning a crank That increases the balance in somebody's bank; And I feel satisfaction that mother is free From the sinister task of attending to me.
They have brightened our room, that is spacious and cool, With diagrams used in the Idiot School, And Books for the Blind that will teach us to see; But mother is happy, for mother is free.
For mother is dancing up forty-eight floors, For love of the Leeds International Stores, And the flame of that faith might perhaps have grown cold, With the care of a baby of seven weeks old.
For mother is happy in greasing a wheel For somebody else, who is cornering Steel; And though our one meeting was not very long, She took the occasion to sing me this song: "O, hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come When thy sleep will be broken with hooting and hum; There are handles want turning and turning all day, And knobs to be pressed in the usual way; O, hush thee, my baby, take rest while I croon, For Progress comes early, and Freedom too soon.
"


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written by G K Chesterton | |

A Ballad Of Suicide

 The gallows in my garden, people say,

Is new and neat and adequately tall; 
I tie the noose on in a knowing way

As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours—on the wall— 
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"

The strangest whim has seized me.
.
.
.
After all I think I will not hang myself to-day.
To-morrow is the time I get my pay— My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall— I see a little cloud all pink and grey— Perhaps the rector's mother will not call— I fancy that I heard from Mr.
Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way— I never read the works of Juvenal— I think I will not hang myself to-day.
The world will have another washing-day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H.
G.
Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall, Rationalists are growing rational— And through thick woods one finds a stream astray So secret that the very sky seems small— I think I will not hang myself to-day.
ENVOI Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall, I think I will not hang myself to-day


Written by G K Chesterton | |

The Shakespeare Memorial

 Lord Lilac thought it rather rotten 
That Shakespeare should be quite forgotten, 
And therefore got on a Committee 
With several chaps out of the City, 
And Shorter and Sir Herbert Tree, 
Lord Rothschild and Lord Rosebery, 
And F.
C.
G.
and Comyn Carr Two dukes and a dramatic star, Also a clergy man now dead; And while the vain world careless sped Unheeding the heroic name -- The souls most fed with Shakespeare's flame Still sat unconquered in a ring, Remembering him like anything.
Lord Lilac did not long remain, Lord Lilac did not some again.
He softly lit a cigarette And sought some other social set Where, in some other knots or rings, People were doing cultured things.
-- Miss Zwilt's Humane Vivarium -- The little men that paint on gum -- The exquisite Gorilla Girl .
.
.
He sometimes, in this giddy whirl (Not being really bad at heart), Remembered Shakespeare with a start -- But not with that grand constancy Of Clement Shorter, Herbert Tree, Lord Rosebery and Comyn Carr And all the other names there are; Who stuck like limpets to the spot, Lest they forgot, lest they forgot.
Lord Lilac was of slighter stuff; Lord Lilac had had quite enough.


Written by G K Chesterton | |

The Last Hero

 The wind blew out from Bergen, from the dawning to the day
There was a wreck of trees, a fall of towers, a score of miles away
And drifted like a livid leaf I go before the tide
Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride
The heavens are bowed about my head, raging like seraph wars
With rains that might put out the sun, and rid the sky of stars
Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above
The roaring of the rains of God, none but the lonely love
Feast in my halls, O Foemen! O eat and drink and drain!
You never loved the sun in heaven, as I have loved the rain!

The tide of battle changes, so may all battle be
I stole my lady bride from them; they stole her back from me
As I wrenched her from her red roofed halls, I rose and saw arise
More lovely than the living flowers, the hatred in her eyes
She never loved me, never wept, never was less divine
And sunset never knew us, her world was never mine
Was it all for nothing that she stood, imperial in duresse
Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress
O you who drain the cup of life! O You who wear the crown!
You never loved a woman's smile as I have loved her frown!

The wind blew out from Bergen to the dawning of the day
They ride and race with fifty spears to break and bar my way
I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers
As merry as the ancient sun, and fighting like the flowers!
How white their steel! How bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave
Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave
Yea, I will bless them as they bend, and love them where they lie
When upon their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky
That hour when death is like a light, and blood is as a rose -
You never loved your friends, my friends, as I will love my foes!

Know you what you shall lose this night, what rich uncounted loans
What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones
My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease
Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas
To see this fair earth as it stands, to me alone was given
The blow that breaks my brow tonight shall break the dome of heaven
The skies I saw, the trees I saw, after, no eye shall see
Tonight I die the death of God - the stars shall die with me!
One sound shall sunder all the spears, and break the trumpet's breath -
You never laughed in all your life, as I shall laugh in death!


Written 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.