Gilbert Keith Chesterton (Гилберт Кит Честертон)

* * *

Here is the little door, lift up the latch, oh lift!
We need not wander more but enter with our gift;
Our gift of finest gold,
Gold that was never bought nor sold;
Myrrh to be strewn about his bed;
Incense in clouds about his head;
All for the Child who stirs not in his sleep.
But holy slumber holds with ass and sheep.

Bend low about his bed, for each he has a gift;
See how his eyes awake, lift up your hands, O lift!
For gold, he gives a keen-edged sword
(Defend with it Thy little Lord!),
For incense, smoke of battle red.
Myrrh for the honoured happy dead;
Gifts for his children terrible and sweet,
Touched by such tiny hands and
Oh such tiny feet. 

1. The Deluge
2. The New Fiction
3. The Strange Music
4. On the Disastrous Spread of Aestheticism in all Classes
5. The Song of Right and Wrong

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1930

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