Page:Poems (1915) G K Chesterton.djvu/62

 Where she was flung, above, beneath,

By the rude dance of life and death,

Grow she at Gotham—die at Rome,

Between the pine trees is her home.

In some strange town, some silver morn,

She may have wandered to be born;

Stopped at some motley crowd impressed,

And called them kinsfolk for a jest.

If we again in goodness thrive,

And the dead saints become alive,

Then pedants bald and parchments brown

May claim her blood for London town.

The great gravestone she may pass by,

And without noticing, may die;

The streets of silver Heaven may tread,

With her grey awful eyes unfed.

The city of great peace in pain

May pass, until she find again

This little house of holm and fir

God built before the stars for her.