One of my favorite Christmas Poem
written by G. K. Chesterton,
otherwise known more as a humorist
to me. Every time Christmas comes
a'calling I turn to this Christmas
poem, to see whether it still
retains its charm, and I am not
by G. K.Chesterton
There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting
Grew a stronger thing to abide and
Than the square stones of Rome.
For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a
Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing
And chance and honour and high
But our homes are under miraculous
Where the yule tale was begun.
A child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads
But our hearts we lost---how long
In a place no chart nor ship can
Under the sky's dome.
This world is wild as an old wife's
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the
And our peace is put in impossible
Where clashed and thundered
Round an incredible star.
To an open house in the evening
Home shall all men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the
To the things that cannot be and
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.
Source Courtesy : www.dur.ac.uk