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

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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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