large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_07_chesterton_64kb_34
large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_07_chesterton_64kb
English
5754
For Eldred fought like a frank hunter That killeth and goeth home; And Mark had fought because all arms Rang like the name of Rome. And Colan fought with a double mind, Moody and madly gay; But Alfred fought as gravely As a good child at play. FOR ELDRED FOUGHT LIKE A FRANK HUNTER THAT KILLETH AND GOETH HOME AND MARK HAD FOUGHT BECAUSE ALL NAMES RANG LIKE THE NAME OF ROME AND COLIN FOUGHT WITH A DOUBLE MIND MOODY AND MADLY GAY BUT ALFRED FOUGHT AS GRAVELY AS A GOOD CHILD AT PLAY
iently push the stone. On the lean, green edge for ever, Where the blank chalk touched the turf, The child played on, alone, divine, As a child plays on the last line That sunders sand and surf. For he dwelleth in high divisions Too simple to understand, Seeing on what morn of mystery The Uncreated rent the sea With roarings, from the land. Through the long infant hours like days He built one tower in vain-- Piled up small stones to make a town, And evermore the stones fell down, And he piled them up again. And crimson kings on battle-towers, And saints on Gothic spires, And hermits on their peaks of snow, And heroes on their pyres, And patriots riding royally, That rush the rocking town, Stretch hands, and hunger and aspire, Seeking to mount where high and higher, The child whom Time can never tire, Sings over White Horse Down. And this was the might of Alfred, At the ending of the way; That of such smiters, wise or wild, He was least distant from the child, Piling the stones all day. TIENTLY WOULD PLUCK THE GRASS PATIENTLY PUSH THE STONE ON THE LEAN GREEN EDGE FOR EVER WHERE THE BLANK CHALK TOUCHED THE TURF THE CHILD PLAYED ON ALONE DIVINE AS A CHILD PLAYS ON THE LAST LINE THAT SUNDERS SAND AND SURF FOR HE DWELLETH IN HIGH DIVISIONS TOO SIMPLE TO UNDERSTAND SEEING ON WHAT MORN OF MYSTERY THE UNCREATED RED THE SEA WITH ROARINGS FROM THE LAND THROUGH THE LONG INFANT HOURS LIKE DAYS HE BUILT ONE TOWER IN VAIN PILED UP SMALL STONES TO MAKE A TOWN AND EVERMORE THE STONES FELL DOWN AND HE PILED THEM UP AGAIN AND CRIMSON KINGS ON BATTLE TOWERS AND SAINTS ON GOTHIC SPIRES AND HERMITS ON THEIR PEAKS OF SNOW AND HEROES ON THEIR PYRES AND PATRIOTS RIDING ROYALLY THAT RUSH THE ROCKING TOWN STRETCH HANDS IN HUNGER AND DESPIRE SEEKING TO MOUNT WHERE HIGH AND HIGHER THE CHILD WHOM TIME CAN NEVER TIRE SINGS OVER WHITE HORSE DOWN AND THIS WAS THE KNIGHT OF ALFRED AT THE ENDING OF THE WAY THAT OF SUCH SMITERS WISE OR WILD HE WAS LEAST DISTANT FROM THE CHILD PILING THE STONES ALL DAY
large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_07_chesterton_64kb
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