By The Babe Unborn

If trees were tall and grasses short,
   As in some crazy tale,
If here and there a sea were blue
   Beyond the breaking pale,

If a fixed fire hung in the air
   To warm me one day through,
If deep green hair grew on great hills,
   I know what I should do.

In dark I lie:  dreaming that there
   Are great eyes cold or kind,
And twisted streets and silent doors,
   And living men behind.

Let storm-clouds come:  better an hour
   And leave to weep and fight,
Than all the ages I have ruled
   The empires of the night.

I think that if they gave me leave
   Within the world to stand,
I would be good through all the day
   I spent in fairyland.

They should not hear a word from me
   Of selfishness or scorn,
If only I could find the door,
   If only I were born.


    -G.K. Chesterton, c. 1897