Touched Mad

Between Chesterton and The Lays of Ancient Rome (which I was poking through again) and Kipling (who is never far from my consciousness), words have been running through my head with more cadence than usual lately. I can't say it is very good cadence, and as my cold has nearly completely stolen my voice away I can't possibly put any of my lines to music, but there is something splendid and shining and stirring, all the same, in a good clear shaft of poetry.

This is largely for Anna, because of the Chesterton which is still running in my blood, and because Anna has Chesterton in her blood too.






* * * * *

There's something a bit happy, and something a bit sad
In the faces of the men that God touched mad:
For they know Hell's torment and they know Hell's fate,
Though they come not to Heaven's doors too late.
They shan't look back, but they still bear
The wounds that Earth and Hell dealt them there.
They know Heaven's laughter, which sounds like tears;
They know all eternity is shorter than years.
They are the mad ones, laughing sorrow's laughter,
The motley fools and jesters due to rule hereafter.
They build a house of people, and mortar it with blood,
And make an ark of stone-work for a fiery flood.
You can crush them and they'll laugh at you—break them and they'll sing.
Burn them into ashes, cinder—they'll only mount on wing.
They are the everlasting ones, the ones beyond the grave;
The ones Hell killed a God for, the ones God came to save.