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

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      THOU SHALT NOT KILL

      I had grown weary of him; of his breath

      And hands and features I was sick to death.

      Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread;

      I did not hate him: but I wished him dead.

      And he must with his blank face fill my life—

      Then my brain blackened; and I snatched a knife.

      But ere I struck, my soul’s grey deserts through

      A voice cried, ‘Know at least what thing you do.’

      ‘This is a common man: knowest thou, O soul,

      What this thing is? somewhere where seasons roll

      There is some living thing for whom this man

      Is as seven heavens girt into a span,

      For some one soul you take the world away—

      Now know you well your deed and purpose. Slay!’

      Then I cast down the knife upon the ground

      And saw that mean man for one moment crowned.

      I turned and laughed: for there was no one by—

      The man that I had sought to slay was I.