Читать книгу The Wild Knight and Other Poems - G. K. Chesterton - Страница 12

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?’