large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_06_chesterton_64kb_19
large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_06_chesterton_64kb
English
5754
Then from the yelling Northmen Driven splintering on him ran Full seven spears, and the seventh Was never made by man. THEN FROM THE YELLING NORTHMEN DRIVEN SPLINTERING ON HIM RAN FULL SEVEN SPEARS AND THE SEVENTH WAS NEVER MADE BY MAN
guine sunset, His shoulder a Wessex down, His hand like a windy hammer-stroke; Men could not count the crests he broke, So fast the crests went down. As the tall white devil of the Plague Moves out of Asian skies, With his foot on a waste of cities And his head in a cloud of flies; Or purple and peacock skies grow dark With a moving locust-tower; Or tawny sand-winds tall and dry, Like hell's red banners beat and fly, When death comes out of Araby, Was Eldred in his hour. But while he moved like a massacre He murmured as in sleep, And his words were all of low hedges And little fields and sheep. Even as he strode like a pestilence, That strides from Rhine to Rome, He thought how tall his beans might be If ever he went home. Spoke some stiff piece of childish prayer, Dull as the distant chimes, That thanked our God for good eating And corn and quiet times-- Till on the helm of a high chief Fell shatteringly his brand, And the helm broke and the bone broke And the sword broke in his hand. SEA HIS FACE LIKE A SANGUINE SUNSET HIS SHOULDER A WESSEX DOWN HIS HAND LIKE A WINDY HAMMER STROKE MEN COULD NOT COUNT THE CRESTS HE BROKE SO FAST THE CRESTS WENT DOWN AS THE TALL WHITE DEVIL OF THE PLAGUE MOVES OUT OF ASIAN SKIES WITH HIS FOOT IN A WASTE OF CITIES AND HIS HEAD IN A CLOUD OF FLIES OR PURPLE AND PEACOCK SKIES GROW DARK WITH A MOVING LOCUST TOWER OR TAWNY SAND WINDS TALL AND DRY LIKE HELL'S RED BANNERS BEAT AND FLY WHEN DEATH COMES OUT OF ARABI WAS ELDRED IN HIS HOUR BUT WHILE HE MOVED LIKE A MASSACRE HE MURMURED AS IN SLEEP AND HIS WORDS WERE ALL OF LOW HEDGES AND LITTLE FIELDS AND SHEEP EVEN AS HE STRODE LIKE A PESTILENCE THAT STRIDES FROM RHINE TO ROME HE THOUGHT HOW TALL HIS BEANS MIGHT BE IF EVER HE WENT HOME SPOKE SOME STIFF PIECE OF CHILDISH PRAYER DULL AS THE DISTANT CHIMES THAT THANKED OUR GOD FOR GOOD EATING AND CORN AND QUIET TIMES TILL ON THE HELM OF A HIGH CHIEF FELL SHATTERINGLY HIS BRAND AND THE HELM BROKE AND THE BONE BROKE AND THE SWORD BROKE IN HIS HAND
large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_06_chesterton_64kb
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download/librilight/large/5754/balladwhitehorse_1404_librivox_64kb_mp3/balladofthewhitehorse_06_chesterton_64kb.flac