Gilbert Keith Chesterton

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

Gilbert Keith Chesterton Poems

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