Arthur Graeme West
One writes to ask me if I’ve read
Of “the Jutland battle,” of “the great advance
Made by the Russians,” chiding — “History
Is being made these days, these are the things
That are worth while.”
These!
Not to one who’s lain
In Heaven before God’s throne with eyes abased,
Worshipping Him, in many forms of Good,
That sate thereon; turning this patchwork world
Wholly to glorify Him, point His plan
Toward some supreme perfection, dimly visioned
By loving faith: not these to him, when, stressed
By some soul-dizzying woe beyond his trust,
He lifts his startled face, and finds the Throne
Empty, turns away, too drunk with Truth
To mind his shame, or feel the loss of God.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
You may find this and other poems here.
Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem is a rejection of what others see as important. It starts with someone asking the speaker if they have kept up with the war’s big events—the Battle of Jutland, the Russian advance—scolding them as if they’re missing out on history in the making. There’s a tone of impatience in the way the question is presented, as if it should be obvious that *these* are the things that matter. But to the speaker, they don’t.
The shift comes quickly. *These!* The single word stands alone, blunt and dismissive. The speaker isn’t just uninterested in war’s so-called great moments—he’s disgusted by the idea that they could be considered “worthwhile.” From here, the poem spirals into something much larger than war, something deeply personal. It moves away from battlefields and strategies and into the collapse of belief itself.
The speaker has experienced something beyond war, beyond history—something he describes as being in Heaven itself, before God’s throne. But this isn’t just religious imagery; it’s more than that. He’s talking about a time when he could still believe in goodness, when he could still see meaning in things, when the world felt like it had some kind of order. He wasn’t just a passive believer—he had *worshipped* that idea, turned the world into a reflection of that faith, convinced himself that everything, no matter how broken, pointed toward something greater.
And then that faith was shattered. Whatever trust he had in goodness, in purpose, in some supreme perfection—it’s gone. The breaking point isn’t described directly, but it doesn’t need to be. The moment is captured in one image: *He lifts his startled face, and finds the Throne empty.* That’s it. God isn’t there. Nothing is there. And that absence, that realization, is overwhelming.
But the poem doesn’t end with a cry for meaning or a struggle to reclaim faith. The speaker doesn’t try to rebuild anything. He just *turns away.* That’s the final moment—he doesn’t even have the strength to feel shame, to mourn, or to rage. He’s *too drunk with Truth* to care. That phrase—*drunk with Truth*—is the most devastating part of the poem. It suggests that whatever he has realized, whatever has replaced his old faith, is overpowering, intoxicating, and impossible to ignore. It isn’t uplifting. It isn’t hopeful. It just *is*. And after that, nothing else matters. Not the war, not history, not even the loss of God.