Author: Gilbert Keith Chesterton

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    All day the nations climb and crawl and pray
    In one long pilgrimage to one white shrine,
    Where sleeps a saint whose pardon, like his peace,
    Is wide as death, as common, as divine.

    His statue in an aureole fills the shrine,
    The reckless nightingale, the roaming fawn,
    Share the broad blessing of his lifted hands,
    Under the canopy, above the lawn.

    But one strange night, a night of gale and flood,
    A sound came louder than the wild wind's tone;
    The grave-gates shook and opened: and one stood
    Blue in the moonlight, rotten to the bone.

    Then on the statue, graven with holy smiles,
    There came another smile--tremendous--one
    Of an Egyptian god. 'Why should you rise?
    'Do I not guard your secret from the sun?

    The nations come; they kneel among the flowers
    Sprung from your blood, blossoms of May and June,
    Which do not poison them--is it not strange?
    Speak!' And the dead man shuddered in the moon.

    Shall I not cry the truth?'--the dead man cowered--
    Is it not sad, with life so tame and cold,
    What earth should fade into the sun's white fires
    With the best jest in all its tales untold?

    'If I should cry that in this shrine lie hid
    Stories that Satan from his mouth would spew;
    Wild tales that men in hell tell hoarsely--speak!
    Saint and Deliverer!    Should I slander you?'

    Slowly the cowering corse reared up its head,
    'Nay, I am vile ... but when for all to see,
    You stand there, pure and painless--death of life!
    Let the stars fall--I say you slander me!

    'You make me perfect, public, colourless;
    You make my virtues sit at ease--you lie!
    For mine were never easy--lost or saved,
    I had a soul--I was. And where am I?

    Where is my good? the little real hoard,
    The secret tears, the sudden chivalries;
    The tragic love, the futile triumph--where?
    Thief, dog, and son of devils--where are these?

    I will lift up my head: in leprous loves
    Lost, and the soul's dishonourable scars--
    By God I was a better man than This
    That stands and slanders me to all the stars.

    'Come down!' And with an awful cry, the corse
    Sprang on the sacred tomb of many tales,
    And stone and bone, locked in a loathsome strife,
    Swayed to the singing of the nightingales.

    Then one was thrown: and where the statue stood
    Under the canopy, above the lawn,
    The corse stood; grey and lean, with lifted hands
    Raised in tremendous welcome to the dawn.

    'Now let all nations climb and crawl and pray;
    Though I be basest of my old red clan,
    They shall not scale, with cries or sacrifice,
    The stature of the spirit of a man.'

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Type of Poem: Narrative Poem

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: This poem presents an existential exploration of the human condition, religious idolatry, and the concept of sainthood. The first half of the poem sets up an idyllic scene of nations partaking in a pilgrimage to a saint's shrine, indicating themes of reverence and unity. The saint's statue is depicted as benevolent and all-encompassing in its blessing, embodying peace and divinity.

However, the tone shifts dramatically in the second half. A spectral figure, presumably the saint himself, rises to challenge the idealized image presented by his statue. The figure's vehement protest against the sanitization of his life's complexities and the erasure of his humanity is stark and profound. The poet uses vivid language and powerful metaphors to convey the saint's outrage at being made "perfect, public, colourless," stripped of his 'real hoard'—his trials, tribulations, and virtues—by the deifying process.

There's a subversion of the traditional saintly narrative as the figure reclaims his humanity, complete with its 'leprous loves' and 'dishonourable scars.' The poem concludes with an empowering assertion of the indomitable 'stature of the spirit of a man,' a statement that redefines sanctity as the authentic human experience, flaws and all.

The structure of the poem, often alternating between the saint's statue and the risen figure, effectively juxtaposes the sanitized public image with the raw human reality. The poem's tone, shifting from tranquil reverence to anguished protest, underlines this dichotomy. Overall, the poem is a compelling critique of religious idolatry and a poignant reminder of the complex, multifaceted nature of human existence.