--if I should brood or rave,
Pity me not; but let the world be fed,
Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead,
Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.

If I dare snarl between this sun and sod,
Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own,
In sun and rain and fruit in season shown,
The shining silence of the scorn of God.

Thank God the stars are set beyond my power,
If I must travail in a night of wrath,
Thank God my tears will never vex a moth,
Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.

Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had
Thought it beat brightly, even on--Calvary:
And He that hung upon the Torturing Tree
Heard all the crickets singing, and was glad.

THE DONKEY

"The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

"Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet."

FOOTNOTES:

[14] From _Poems_ by G. K. Chesterton. Copyright by the John Lane Co.
and reprinted by permission of the publishers.

_Wilfrid Wilson Gibson_

Born at Hexam in 1878, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson has published almost a
dozen books of verse--the first four or five (see Preface) being
imitative in manner and sentimentally romantic in tone. With _The
Stonefolds_ (1907) and _Daily Bread_ (1910), Gibson executed a
complete right-about-face and, with dramatic brevity, wrote a series
of poems mirroring the dreams, pursuits and fears of common humanity.
_Fires_ (1912) marks an advance in technique and power. And though in
_Livelihood_ (1917) Gibson seems to be theatricalizing and merely
exploiting his working-people, his later lyrics recapture the veracity
of such memorable poems as "The Old Man," "The Blind Rower," and "The
Machine." _Hill-Tracks_ (1918) attempts to capture the beauty of
village-names and the glamour of the English countryside.

PRELUDE

As one, at midnight, wakened by the call
Of golden-plovers in their seaward flight,
Who lies and listens, as the clear notes fall
Through tingling silence of the frosty night--
Who lies and listens, till the last note fails,
And then, in fancy, faring with the flock
Far over slumbering hills and dreaming dales,
Soon hears the surges break on reef and rock;
And, hearkening, till a