28 SEPTEMBER 1934, Page 13

Archaic Apollo

DREDGED in a net the slender god Lies on deck and dries in the sun, His head set proudly on his neck Like a runner's whose race is won.

On his breast the Aegean lay While the whole of history was made ; That long caress could not warm the flesh Nor the antique smile abrade.

He is as he was, inert, alert, The one hand open, the other lightly shut, His nostrils clean as holes in a flute, The nipples and navel delicately cut.

The formal eyes are calm and sly, Of knowledge and joy a perfect token— The world being caught in the net of the sky No hush can drown a word once spoken.

WILLIAM PLOMER.