Gilbert Keith Chesterton

(29 May 1874 – 14 June 1936 / London, England)

Gilbert Keith Chesterton Poems

1. The novels of Jane Austen 10/15/2015
2. Sonnet With The Compliments Of The Season 10/24/2014
3. Alliterativism 10/24/2014
4. To Edmund Clerihew Bentley 10/24/2014
5. Confessional 10/24/2014
6. This Is The Sort Of Book We Like 10/24/2014
7. The Song Of Elf 10/24/2014
8. When Fishes Flew 10/24/2014
9. Whenever William Cobbett 10/15/2015
10. Modern Elfland 4/15/2012
11. Tribute To Gladstone 4/15/2012
12. Rotarians 4/15/2012
13. The New Omar 1/1/2004
14. The Horrible History Of Jones 4/15/2012
15. The Song Of The Wheels 4/15/2012
16. The Philanthropist 4/15/2012
17. The Modern Manichee 4/15/2012
18. St, Francis Xavier 4/15/2012
19. The Mystery 4/15/2012
20. The New Fiction 4/15/2012
21. To St. Micheal In Time Of Peace 4/15/2012
22. The Wise Men 4/15/2012
23. The Judgement Of England 4/15/2012
24. The Praise Of Dust 4/15/2012
25. A Ballade Of An Anti-Puritan 4/15/2012
26. The Ballad Of St. Barbara 4/15/2012
27. Songs Of Education 4/15/2012
28. The Myth Of Arthur 1/1/2004
29. A Ballad Of Theatricals 4/15/2012
30. The Ballad Of God-Makers 4/15/2012
31. A Christmas Carol 4/15/2012
32. Cyclopean 4/15/2012
33. Jealousy 4/15/2012
34. The Song Of The Oak 1/1/2004
35. The Wife Of Flanders 1/1/2004
36. A Broad Minded Bishop Rebukes The Verminous St. Francis 4/15/2012
37. Variations Of An Air 1/1/2004
38. A Ballad Of Abbreviations 4/15/2012
39. The Holy Of Holies 1/1/2004
40. Here Is The Little Door 4/15/2012

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Best Poem of Gilbert Keith Chesterton

The Last Hero

The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away,
And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide,
Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride.
The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars,
With rains that might put out the sun and clean 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 hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain,
You never loved the sun in...

Read the full of The Last Hero

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.

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