Here you will find the Long Poem The Black Virgin of poet Gilbert Keith Chesterton
One in thy thousand statues we salute thee On all thy thousand thrones acclaim and claim Who walk in forest of thy forms and faces Walk in a forest calling on one name And, most of all, how this thing may be so Who know thee not are mystified to know That one cries "Here she stands" and one cries "Yonder" And thou wert home in heaven long ago. Burn deep in Bethlehem in the golden shadows, Ride above Rome upon the horns of stone, From low Lancastrian or South Saxon shelters Watch through dark years the dower that was shine own: Ghost of our land, White Lady of Walsinghame, Shall they not live that call upon thy name If an old song on a wild wind be blowing Crying of the holy country whence they came? Root deep in Chartres the roses blown of glass Burning above thee in the high vitrailles, On Cornish crags take for salute of swords O'er peacock seas the far salute of sails, Glooming in bronze or gay in painted wood, A great doll given when the child is good, Save that She gave the Child who gave the doll, In whom all dolls are dreams of motherhood. I have found thee like a little shepherdess Gay with green ribbons; and passed on to find Michael called Angel hew the Mother of God Like one who fills a mountain with a mind: Molten in silver or gold or garbed in blue, Or garbed in red where the inner robe burns through, Of the King's daughter glorious within: Change shine unchanging light with every hue. Clothed with the sun or standing on the moon Crowned with the stars or single, a morning star, Sunlight and moonlight are thy luminous shadows, Starlight and twilight thy refractions are, Lights and half-lights and all lights turn about thee, But though we dazed can neither see nor doubt thee, Something remains. Nor can man live without it Nor can man find it bearable without thee. There runs a dark thread through the tapestries That time has woven with all the tints of time Something not evil but grotesque and groping, Something not clear; not final; not sublime; Quaint as dim pattern of primal plant or tree Or fish, the legless elfins of the sea, Yet rare as this shine image in ebony Being most strange in its simplicity. Rare as the rushing of the wild black swans The Romans saw; or rocks remote and grim Where through black clouds the black sheep runs accursed And through black clouds the Shepherd follows him. By the black oak of the aeon-buried grove By the black gems of the miner's treasure-trove Monsters and freaks and fallen stars and sunken- Most holy dark, cover our uncouth love. From shine high rock look down on Africa The living darkness of devouring green The loathsome smell of life unquenchable, Look on low brows and blinking eyes between, On the dark heart where white folk find no place, On the dark bodies of an antic race, On all that fear thy light and love thy shadow, Turn thou the mercy of thy midnight face. This also is in thy spectrum; this dark ray; Beyond the deepening purples of thy Lent Darker than violet vestment; dark and secret Clot of old night yet cloud of heaven sent: As the black moon of some divine eclipse, As the black sun of the Apocalypse, As the black flower that blessed Odysseus back From witchcraft; and he saw again the ships. In all thy thousand images we salute thee, Claim and acclaim on all thy thousand thrones Hewn out of multi-colored rocks and risen Stained with the stored-up sunsets in all tones- If in all tones and shades this shade I feel, Come from the black cathedrals of Castille Climbing these flat black stones of Catalonia, To thy most merciful face of night I kneel.