Dale recites poetry by Chesterton and it the poetry is amazing.
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The poem's read in the podcast:
Elegy in a Country Churchyard By G.K. Chesterton
The men that worked for England They have their graves at home; And bees and birds of England About the cross can roam.
By they that fought for England, Following a falling star, Alas, alas for England They have their graves afar.
And they that rule in England, In stately conclave met, Alas, alas for England They have no graves as yet.
The Happy Man By G.K. Chesterton
To teach the grey earth like a child, To bid the heavens repent, I only ask from Fate the gift Of one man well content.
Him will I find: though when in vain I search the feast and mart, The fading flowers of liberty, The painted masks of art,
I only find him at the last, On one old hill where nod Golgotha's ghastly trinity – Three persons and one god.
A Chord Of Colour By G.K. Chesterton
My Lady clad herself in grey, That caught and clung about her throat; Then all the long grey winter day On me a living splendour smote; And why grey palmers holy are, And why grey minsters great in story, And grey skies ring the morning star, And grey hairs are a crown of glory.
My Lady clad herself in green, Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;Then round my spirit spread, I ween, A splendour of forgotten grass. Then all that dropped of stem or sod, Hoarded as emeralds might be, I bowed to every bush, and trod Amid the live grass fearfully.
My Lady clad herself in blue, Then on me, like the seer long gone, The likeness of a sapphire grew, The throne of him that sat thereon. Then knew I why the Fashioner Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea; And ere 'twas good enough for her, He tried it on Eternity.
Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree Sat, like an owl, the evil sage: 'The World's a bubble,' solemnly He read, and turned a second page. 'A bubble, then, old crow,' I cried, 'God keep you in your weary wit! 'A bubble - Have you ever spied The colours I have seen on it ?'
Fantasia By G.K. Chesterton
The happy men that lose their heads They find their heads in heaven As cherub heads with cherub wings, And cherub haloes even: Out of the infinite evening lands Along the sunset sea, Leaving the purple fields behind, The cherub wings beat down the wind Back to the groping body and blind As the bird back to the tree.
Whether the plumes be passion-red For him that truly dies By headsman's blade or battle-axe, Or blue like butterflies, For him that lost it in a lane In April's fits and starts, His folly is forgiven then: But higher, and far beyond our ken, Is the healing of the unhappy men, The men that lost their hearts.
Is there not pardon for the brave And broad release above,Who lost their heads for liberty Or lost their hearts for love? Or is the wise man wise indeed Whom larger thoughts keep whole? Who sees life equal like a chart, Made strong to play the saner part, And keep his head and keep his heart, And only lose his soul.
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