O for a whiff of castored air, tinder
To the dormant fires of past enthusings.
For brightens then the eye in expectation
Of renewal of old familiar sights;
And attentive is the ear to hark
Again to healthy motors.
And lo, sweeps
By Le Patron’s proud accomplishment of
Some earlier day and age, and passes from
Our lately favoured sight the while we sigh.
Alas, so many of us can but travel
In such Godlike manner in our minds, yet
Even so, we find such travel good.
Is our lot that we must needs content
Ourselves with humbler carriages, but
Not through that are we self-deemed less
Worthy of the name of Motorist.
Call him not a Motorist whose car is
But a means of transportation. Call
Him, if you will, a traveller, of that
Same status as are all those conveyed in
Public transport; for transport, mark you, is
But the means unto an end, whereas who
Motors, in the very act of travel
Finds the end itself, and finds that end an
And we, who are so jealous of our name,
Are understood but by our brothers, and
Never can, by he who only travels, be given
E. Gordon Oxenham.