Bertram Andrews
A while ago in London town,
I watched the crowds come trooping down
And mark’d the people passing by,
(Such hosts of people passing by)
All speeding on so pensively.
Oblivious of my stare.
Yet all the time I was aware
That one had gone who should be there,
Thus, searching in my memory,
I could not think who it should be
Till, happily,
I saw a soldier home from France
“’Tis he”, I thought, “That merry glance!
“’Tis Cupid who, his bow and dart
“For bomb and bayonet laid apart,
“No longer wars on human heart
“But wages warfare new.
“Yet that,” I ponder’d,” can’t be true.
“The land has lovers still a few.
“Who then can Cupid’s place supply,
“Since still his arrows seem to fly
“unerringly?”
Anon a maiden chanc’d to pass,
A bright and winsome, laughing lass;
Who, as she went, provokingly
Enslav’d mankind and dext’rously
Contrived, their hearts should captive be
To her whom next they view’d.
Now Cupid fights, his ancient feud
Is by his sister still pursued:
But deadlier her artillery
(His bow and quiver idle lie),
Her roguish eye.
Plumstead
August 1916
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem takes place in London, but it’s not just about London. It’s about what’s missing. The speaker watches crowds pass through the city, sees the movement and the life, but something feels wrong. Someone should be there but isn’t. The poem holds onto that absence for a while, making the reader sit with it just as the speaker does. The people in the crowd don’t seem to notice anything unusual. They go about their business, lost in thought. The only one searching is the speaker, trying to pin down exactly what’s changed.
Then the soldier appears, and the realization hits: *“’Tis he.”* But not just any soldier—Cupid. That’s the first real surprise. The god of love, stripped of his bow and arrows, has traded them for weapons of war. There’s a playfulness in the thought at first, as if the soldier is just a new version of the old mischief-maker, someone who once made people fall in love but now has a different battlefield. But the speaker quickly questions that idea. If Cupid is gone, why do people still fall in love? Who is taking his place?
That’s when the second figure appears—a young woman, full of life, full of charm. She doesn’t need Cupid’s help. She captures hearts all on her own, effortlessly turning heads as she walks past. And with that, the poem shifts from loss to something almost humorous. War has taken Cupid, but love hasn’t disappeared. It’s just changed hands. The woman’s glance is just as dangerous as any arrow, her beauty just as powerful as any weapon.
Even with that light touch, the poem never lets go of its deeper truth: war leaves gaps. It takes people away. London still has its crowds, but something about them is off. The soldier stands out because he reminds the speaker of who isn’t there. Cupid might be reimagined as a soldier, but there’s an edge to that idea—love itself is drawn into the war, repurposed, put on hold. The young woman proves that romance hasn’t vanished, but it has been left behind, separate from the fighting. The contrast between her effortless charm and the soldier’s grim duty makes it clear. War and love are still linked, but now they move in different directions.