The Wild Knight and Other Poems. Гилберт Кит Честертон

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       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?'