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Gilbert Keith Chesterton

    Aleksandra Dovgaiahar citeretsidste år
    If you look at a thing nine hun­dred and ninety-nine times, you are per­fectly safe; if you look at it the thou­sandth time, you are in fright­ful danger of see­ing it for the first time.
    b5825192143har citeretfor 4 måneder siden
    A cloud was on the mind of men, and wail­ing went the weather,
    Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys to­gether.
    Science an­nounced non­entity and art ad­mired de­cay;
    The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay;
    Round us in antic or­der their crippled vices came—
    Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame.
    Like the white lock of Whist­ler, that lit our aim­less gloom,
    Men showed their own white feather as proudly as a plume.
    Life was a fly that faded, and death a drone that stung;
    The world was very old in­deed when you and I were young.
    They twis­ted even de­cent sin to shapes not to be named:
    Men were ashamed of hon­our; but we were not ashamed.
    Weak if we were and fool­ish, not thus we failed, not thus;
    When that black Baal blocked the heav­ens he had no hymns from us.
    Chil­dren we were—our forts of sand were even as weak as we,
    High as they went we piled them up to break that bit­ter sea.
    Fools as we were in mot­ley, all jangling and ab­surd,
    When all church bells were si­lent our cap and bells were heard.
    b5825192143har citeretfor 4 måneder siden
    To Edmund Clerihew Bentley
    A cloud was on the mind of men, and wail­ing went the weather,
    Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys to­gether.
    Science an­nounced non­entity and art ad­mired de­cay;
    The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay;
    Round us in antic or­der their crippled vices came—
    Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame.
    Like the white lock of Whist­ler, that lit our aim­less gloom,
    Men showed their own white feather as proudly as a plume.
    Life was a fly that faded, and death a drone that stung;
    The world was very old in­deed when you and I were young.
    They twis­ted even de­cent sin to shapes not to be named:
    Men were ashamed of hon­our; but we were not ashamed.
    Weak if we were and fool­ish, not thus we failed, not thus;
    When that black Baal blocked the heav­ens he had no hymns from us.
    Chil­dren we were—our forts of sand were even as weak as we,
    High as they went we piled them up to break that bit­ter sea.
    Fools as we were in mot­ley, all jangling and ab­surd,
    When all church bells were si­lent our cap and bells were heard.

    Not all un­helped we held the fort, our tiny flags un­furled;
    Some gi­ants la­boured in that cloud to lift it from the world.
    I find again the book we found, I feel the hour that flings
    Far out of fish-shaped Pau­manok some cry of cleaner things;
    And the Green Carna­tion withered, as in forest fires that pass,
    Roared in the wind of all the world ten mil­lion leaves of grass;
    Or sane and sweet and sud­den as a bird sings in the rain—
    Truth out of Tus­it­ala spoke and pleas­ure out of pain.
    Yea, cool and clear and sud­den as a bird sings in the grey,
    Du­nedin to Samoa spoke, and dark­ness unto day.
    But we were young; we lived to see God break their bit­ter charms.
    God and the good Re­pub­lic come rid­ing back in arms:
    We have seen the City of Man­soul, even as it rocked, re­lieved—
    Blessed are they who did not see, but be­ing blind, be­lieved.

    This is a tale of those old fears, even of those emp­tied hells,
    And none but you shall un­der­stand the true thing that it tells—
    Of what co­lossal gods of shame could cow men and yet crash,
    Of what huge dev­ils hid the stars, yet fell at a pis­tol flash.
    The doubts that were so plain to chase, so dread­ful to with­stand—
    Oh, who shall un­der­stand but you; yea, who shall un­der­stand?
    The doubts that drove us through the night as we two talked amain,
    And day had broken on the streets e’er it broke upon the brain.
    Between us, by the peace of God, such truth can now be told;
    Yea, there is strength in strik­ing root and good in grow­ing old.
    We have found com­mon things at last and mar­riage and a creed,
    And I may safely write it now, and you may safely read.

    G. K. C.
    b5825192143har citeretfor 4 måneder siden
    that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.
    b5825192143har citeretfor 4 måneder siden
    That old gen­tle­man with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat—that ven­er­able hum­bug was not really a philo­sopher; but at least he was the cause of philo­sophy in oth­ers.
    b5825192143har citeretfor 4 måneder siden
    That sci­entific gen­tle­man with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of sci­ence that he as­sumed. He had not dis­covered any­thing new in bio­logy; but what bio­lo­gical creature could he have dis­covered more sin­gu­lar than him­self?
    b5825192143har citeretfor 4 måneder siden
    A man who stepped into its so­cial at­mo­sphere felt as if he had stepped into a writ­ten com­edy.
    b5825192143har citeretfor 4 måneder siden
    He seemed like a walk­ing blas­phemy, a blend of the an­gel and the ape.
    b5825192143har citeretfor 4 måneder siden
    burst of blaz­ing light, one peal of per­fect thun­der
    b5825192143har citeretfor 4 måneder siden
    The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, ob­vi­ous thing is to miss it. We feel it is ep­ical when man with one wild ar­row strikes a dis­tant bird. Is it not also ep­ical when man with one wild en­gine strikes a dis­tant sta­tion? Chaos is dull; be­cause in chaos the train might in­deed go any­where, to Baker Street or to Bag­dad. But man is a ma­gi­cian, and his whole ma­gic is in this, that he does say Vict­oria, and lo! it is Vict­oria.
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