Charles Sorley
O come and see, it’s such a sight,
So many boys all doing right:
To see them underneath the yoke,
Blindfolded by the elder folk,
Move at a most impressive rate
Along the way that is called straight.
O, it is comforting to know
They’re in the way they ought to go.
But don’t you think it’s far more gay
To see them slowly leave the way
And limp and loose themselves and fall?
O, that’s the nicest thing of all.
I love to see this sight, for then
I know they are becoming men,
And they are tiring of the shrine
Where things are really not divine.
I do not know if it seems brave
The youthful spirit to enslave,
And hedge about, lest it should grow.
I don’t know if it’s better so
In the long end. I only know
That when I have a son of mine,
He shan’t be made to droop and pine.
Bound down and forced by rule and rod
To serve a God who is no God.
But I’ll put custom on the shelf
And make him find his God himself.
Perhaps he’ll find him in a tree,
Some hollow trunk, where you can see.
Perhaps the daisies in the sod
Will open out and show him God.
Or will he meet him in the roar
Of breakers as they beat the shore?
Or in the spiky stars that shine?
Or in the rain (where I found mine)?
Or in the city’s giant moan?
–A God who will be all his own,
To whom he can address a prayer
And love him, for he is so fair,
And see with eyes that are not dim
And build a temple meet for him.
_June 1913_
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem steps out from the rigid paths of tradition and casts a curious, questioning gaze on what it means to grow, to believe, and to truly see. There’s a quiet rebellion in its voice—one that doesn’t shout or rage, but instead stands aside and asks: *Why should things be this way?*
The poet begins by presenting two contrasting journeys. First, there’s the “straight way,” where boys move blindly and obediently, guided by elders. It’s described as right and orderly, even comforting. But the tone is faintly ironic, hinting that this path, for all its discipline, lacks vibrancy. Then comes the second path—the breaking away, the stumbling, the falling. Here, the poet’s voice lights up with delight. This isn’t failure but growth, a messy, imperfect liberation that marks the transition into individuality and manhood.
The poem carries a deep skepticism of imposed religion and tradition. It critiques the way youthful spirits are restrained, boxed into rules and rituals that feel hollow. The “shrine” is not divine; the “God” being served is no God at all. This is not an outright rejection of faith but a rejection of a faith handed down without question, forced upon young minds without room for exploration or doubt.
There’s a profound tenderness in the poem’s vision for the poet’s own imagined son. This future child will not be bound by “rule and rod” or compelled to worship out of duty. Instead, he’ll be free to wander, to seek, to find something personal and real. The imagery here opens up like a meadow—trees, daisies, stars, rain, waves—all potential meeting places for a God who is not defined by dogma but discovered in the world’s beauty and chaos. The city, too, with its “giant moan,” is a sacred space, proving that divinity can be found even in the noise and struggle of human life.
The poem feels deeply modern, not in its language but in its attitude. It values questioning over obedience, individuality over conformity, and personal discovery over institutional authority. The poet’s trust in nature and experience to reveal the divine is almost Romantic, but there’s also a groundedness to it. This isn’t about lofty ideals or abstract philosophies—it’s about finding something real, something fair and beautiful, something that fits the shape of your own heart.
The closing lines leave a quiet hope. The son will build his temple, not with bricks and mortar but with his own understanding. It will be a place of love, clarity, and authenticity—a space where the divine isn’t handed down but arises naturally, shaped by the seeker’s own journey. This is the poem’s true faith: not in a God of rules but in a God of rain, stars, and self-discovery. It’s a faith as wild and untamed as the nature it evokes, and as personal as the life it celebrates.