English poem
THE MYSTERY
by G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936)
If sunset clouds could grow on trees It would but match the may in flower; And skies be underneath the seas No topsyturvier than a shower.
If mountains rose on wings to wander They were no wilder than a cloud; Yet all my praise is mean as slander, Mean as these mean words spoken aloud.
And never more than now I know That man's first heaven is far behind; Unless the blazing seraph's blow Has left him in the garden blind.
Witness, O Sun that blinds our eyes, Unthinkable and unthankable King, That though all other wonder dies I wonder at not wondering.