The Ballad of the White Horse by G. K. (Gilbert Keith) Chesterton
page 21 of 111 (18%)
page 21 of 111 (18%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
Good steadings to grey ashes gone
And a monk's house white like a skeleton In the green crypt of the combe. And in many a Roman villa Earth and her ivies eat, Saw coloured pavements sink and fade In flowers, and the windy colonnade Like the spectre of a street. But the cold stars clustered Among the cold pines Ere he was half on his pilgrimage Over the western lines. And the white dawn widened Ere he came to the last pine, Where Mark, the man from Italy, Still made the Christian sign. The long farm lay on the large hill-side, Flat like a painted plan, And by the side the low white house, Where dwelt the southland man. A bronzed man, with a bird's bright eye, And a strong bird's beak and brow, His skin was brown like buried gold, And of certain of his sires was told That they came in the shining ship of old, |
|