The world is ours till sunset

                              Holly and fire and snow,

                     And the name of our dead brother

                              Who loved us long ago.

                     The grown folk mighty and cunning,

                              They write his name in gold ;

                      But we can a tell little

                              Of the million tales he told.


                     He taught them laws and watchwords,

                              To preach and struggle and pray;

                     But he taught us deep in the hayfield

                              The game that the angels play.


                     Had he stayed here for ever ,

                               Their world would be wise as ours

                     And the king be cutting capers,

                               And the priest be picking flowers.


                     But the dark day came; they gathered ,

                               On their faces  we could see

                     They had taken and slain our brother,

                               And hanged him on a tree.

                                                                                                       ---------   G. K. Chesterton

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