Poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

* * *

This is the sort of book we like
(For you and I are very small),
With pictures stuck in anyhow,
And hardly any words at all.
. . .
You will not understand a word
Of all the words, including mine;
Never you trouble; you can see,
And all directness is divine—
Stand up and keep your childishness:
Read all the pedants' screeds and strictures;
But don't believe in anything
That can't be told in coloured pictures. 

1. The New Fiction
2. The Deluge
3. The Strange Music
4. On the Disastrous Spread of Aestheticism in all Classes
5. Whenever William Cobbett

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