I Wonder at Not Wondering

 The Mystery
by G. K. Chesterton

 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.