The Wild Knight and Other Poems. G. K. Chesterton

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      A CHORD OF COLOUR

      My Lady clad herself in grey,

       That caught and clung about her throat;

      Then all the long grey winter day

       On me a living splendour smote;

      And why grey palmers holy are,

       And why grey minsters great in story,

      And grey skies ring the morning star,

       And grey hairs are a crown of glory.

      My Lady clad herself in green,

       Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;

      Then round my spirit spread, I ween,

       A splendour of forgotten grass.

      Then all that dropped of stem or sod,

       Hoarded as emeralds might be,

      I bowed to every bush, and trod

       Amid the live grass fearfully.

      My Lady clad herself in blue,

       Then on me, like the seer long gone,

      The likeness of a sapphire grew,

       The throne of him that sat thereon.

      Then knew I why the Fashioner

       Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea;

      And ere ‘twas good enough for her,

       He tried it on Eternity.

      Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree

       Sat, like an owl, the evil sage:

      ‘The World’s a bubble,’ solemnly

       He read, and turned a second page.

      ‘A bubble, then, old crow,’ I cried,

       ‘God keep you in your weary wit!

      ‘A bubble—have you ever spied

       ‘The colours I have seen on it?’