Gilbert Keith Chesterton

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

Gilbert Keith Chesterton Poems

41. The Ballad Of The Anti-Puritan 1/1/2004
42. The Song Of The Strange Ascetic 1/1/2004
43. The Road To Roundabout 1/1/2004
44. The Logical Vegetarian 1/1/2004
45. To The Unknown Warrior 1/1/2004
46. A Word 4/15/2012
47. The Higher Unity 1/1/2004
48. To Belloc 1/1/2004
49. The Song Of Quoodle 1/1/2004
50. The Skeleton 1/1/2004
51. For A War Memorial 4/15/2012
52. By The Babe Unborn 4/15/2012
53. Gloria In Profundis 4/15/2012
54. The Sword Of Suprise 1/1/2004
55. The Strange Music 1/1/2004
56. The Song Against Grocers 1/1/2004
57. The Great Minimum 1/1/2004
58. The Englishman 1/1/2004
59. The Towers Of Time 1/1/2004
60. The Convert 1/1/2004
61. The New Freethinker 1/1/2004
62. Antichrist, Or The Reunion Of Christendom: An Ode 1/1/2004
63. The Deluge 1/1/2004
64. The Black Virgin 1/1/2004
65. An Answer To Frances Cornford 1/1/2004
66. The Unpardonable Sin 1/1/2004
67. The Aristocrat 1/1/2004
68. The Song Of Education 1/1/2004
69. The Human Tree 1/1/2004
70. The House Of Christmas 1/1/2004
71. Wine And Water 1/1/2004
72. The Shakespeare Memorial 1/1/2004
73. The Song Of Right And Wrong 1/1/2004
74. On The Disastrous Spread Of Aestheticism In All Classes 1/1/2004
75. The Old Song 1/1/2004
76. Femina Contra Mundum 1/1/2004
77. Ecclesiastes 1/1/2004
78. A Cider Song 1/1/2004
79. A Little Litany 1/1/2004
80. Who Goes Home? 1/1/2004

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Best Poem of Gilbert Keith 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.

Read the full of A Prayer In Darkness

The New Freethinker

John Grubby who was short and stout
And troubled with religious doubt,
Refused about the age of three
To sit upon the curate's knee;
(For so the eternal strife must rage
Between the spirit of the age
And Dogma, which, as is well known,
Does simply hate to be outgrown).
Grubby, the young idea that shoots,

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