Артур Грэм Уэст (Arthur Graeme West)

On Reading Ballads

We lay upon a flowery hill
            Close by the railway lines,
Apollo dusted gold on us
            Between the windy pines.

We watched the London trains go by
            Full of the weary folk,
Who travelled back that Sunday night
            To six more days of smoke.

They stared out at the whirling fields,
            And when they saw us two,
They turned their heads to follow us
            Till we were snatched from view.

The year was at the summer’s spring
            When grass grows fresh and long,
And flowers are more in bud than bloom,
            And cuckoos slacken song.

The sainfoin and the purple vetch
            Nodding above our lair
Sighed on the western breeze, whose might
            Could barely stir our hair.

The hawkweed on our ballad book
            Sprinkled its pollen fine,
And now and then a beetle dropped
            And wandered through a line.

“Sir Patrick Spens” we loitered down,
            “Tam Lin” and “Young Beichan,”
And almost felt the sunshine weep
            For the “Lass of Lochroyan.”

Stanza on stanza endlessly
            From her lips or from mine
Benumbed our dreaming souls, like drops
            Of a Circean wine.

I watched her while she read to me,
            As children watch their nurse,
Until my being throbbed to hear
            This solitary verse:

“O western wind, when wilt thou blow
            That the small rain down can rain?
Christ! That my love were in my arms
            And I in my bed again!”

This little verse cut thorugh the twists
            Of the dream-twinèd spell,
And “Robin Hood” sank back again
            With the “Wife of Usher’s Well.”

And an illimitable desire
            Quickened our souls with pain.
We knew that we were still at one
            With the people in the train.

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