The Wild Knight and Other Poems. Гилберт Кит Честертон

      Thou Shalt Not Kill a Certain Evening

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      I had grown weary of him; of his breath

       And hands and features I was sick to death.

       Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread;

       I did not hate him: but I wished him dead.

       And he must with his blank face fill my life -

       Then my brain blackened; and I snatched a knife.

       But ere I struck, my soul's grey deserts through

       A voice cried, 'Know at least what thing you do.'

       'This is a common man: knowest thou, O soul,

       What this thing is? somewhere where seasons roll

       There is some living thing for whom this man

       Is as seven heavens girt into a span,

       For some one soul you take the world away -

       Now know you well your deed and purpose. Slay!'

       Then I cast down the knife upon the ground

       And saw that mean man for one moment crowned.

       I turned and laughed: for there was no one by -

       The man that I had sought to slay was I.