Arthur Graeme West Poems

God! How I hate you, you young cheerful men,
Whose pious poetry blossoms on your graves
As soon as you are in them, nurtured up
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Over the top! The wire’s thin here, unbarbed
Plain rusty coils, not staked, and low enough:
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All Gods are dead, even the great God Pan
Is dead at length; the lone inhabitant
Of my ever-dwindling Pantheon. Pan! Pan!
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Oh, I came singing down the road
Whereon was nought perplext me,
And Pan with Art before me stroke,
And Walter Pater next me.
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Last night, O God, I climbed up to thy house
So loving-passionate towards thee, that not
The sharp loose flintstones hurt my feet, the blood
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We lay upon a flowery hill
Close by the railway lines,
Apollo dusted gold on us
Between the windy pines.
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A whistle ’mid the distant hills
Shattered the silence grey,
She turned on me her great sad eyes,
Then lightly skimmed away.
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You see this Tea, no milk or sugar in it,
Like peat-born water’s brown translucency,
Where deep and still it lingers through the shade
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One writes to ask me if I’ve read
Of “the Jutland battle,” of “the great advance
Made by the Russians,” chiding — “History
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Meanwhile the Toga (Tully’s phrase forgot)
Makes way for arms; the muses hover not
As they were wont o’er Oxford’s day and night
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