The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: Edward ShanksRelease date: October 12, 2011 [eBook #37556]Most recently updated: January 8, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: PoemsAuthor: Edward ShanksRelease date: October 12, 2011 [eBook #37556]Most recently updated: January 8, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Poems
Author: Edward Shanks
Author: Edward Shanks
Release date: October 12, 2011 [eBook #37556]Most recently updated: January 8, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
POEMS
By EDWARD SHANKS
LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.3 Adam Street, Adelphi, W.C.1916
By the Same AuthorSONGS. 6s. net.(The Poetry Bookshop)
TO
J. C. STOBART
NOTE
Certain of these pieces have appeared already in the following periodicals:—The English Review, The Saturday Review, The Eye-Witness, The Westminster Gazette, andThe Pall Mall Gazette. One of the Songs was printed for the first time in an anthology calledCambridge Poets. I am indebted to the editors of these for permission to reprint them here.E. S.
CONTENTS
SONGS—
Song for an Unwritten PlayThe CupA Rhymeless SongMeadow and OrchardWho thinks that he possessesLove in the Open AirFear in the NightAn Old SongLove's CloseThe WeedRecollectionThe HolidayWalking at NightHalf HopeA New Song about the Sea
THE WINTER SOLDIER—
The Winter Soldier, i.-ix.The PoolThe Dead Poet
PASTORAL PIECES—
The Vision in the WoodThe IdyllThe Pursuit of Daphne
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS—
Ode on BeautySong in Time of WaitingSonnets on Separation, i.-vii.The Morning SunPersuasionApologyThe Golden MomentBramberNow would I beMidwinter MadnessAt a Lecture
The moon's a drowsy fool to-night,Wrapped in fleecy clouds and white;And all the while EndymionSleeps on Latmos top alone.
Not a single star is seen:They are gathered round their queen,Keeping vigil by her bed,Patient and unwearièd.
Now the poet drops his penAnd moves about like other men:Tom o' Bedlam now is stillAnd sleeps beneath the hawthorn'd hill.
Only the Latmian shepherd deemsSomething missing from his dreamsAnd tosses as he sleeps alone.Alas, alas, Endymion!
As a hot travellerGoing through stones and sands,Who sees clear water stirAmid the weary lands,Takes in his hollowed handsThe clean and lively water,That trickles down his throatLike laughter, like laughter,
So when you come to meAcross these parchèd placesAnd all the waste I seeFlowered with your graces,I take between my handsYour face like a rare cup,Where kisses mix with laughter,And drink and drink them upLike water, like water.
Rhyme with its jingle still betraysThe song that's meant for one alone.Dearest, I dedicate to youA little song without a rhyme.
The most unpractised schoolboy knowsThat quiet kisses are the sweetest.Safe locked within my arms you lie,Let not a single sound betray us.
Suppose your jealous mother cameBy chance this way and found us here...Be still, be still, and not a soundShall give her warning that we love.
My heart is like a meadow,Where clouds go over,Dappling the mingled grass and cloverWith mingled sun and shadow,With light that will not stayAnd shade that sails away.
Your heart is like an orchard,That has the sun for ever in its leaves,Where, on the grass beneath the trees,There falls the shadow of the fruitThat ripen there for me.
Who thinks that he possessesHis mistress with his kissesKnows neither love nor her.Nor beauty is not hisWho seeks it in a kiss:If you would seek for thisO seek it otherwhere!
Love is a flame, a spiritBeyond all earthly meritAnd all we dream of here;Strive as you may but stillLove is intangible,No servant to your willBut sovereign otherwhere.
I'll love you in the open airBut stuffy rooms and blazing firesAnd mirrors with familiar stareCloak and befoul my high desires.
The dearest day that I have knownWas in the fields, when driving rainWas like a veil around us thrown,A grey close veil without a stain.
The young oak-tree was stripped and bareBut naked twigs a shelter made,Where curious cows came round to stareAnd stood astonished and dismayed.
Let it be rain or summer sun,Smell of wet earth or scent of flowers,Love, once more give me, give me oneOf these enchanted lover's hours.
I am afraid to-night,We are too glad, too gay,Our life too sweet, too brightTo last another day.
What hap, what chance can fall,What sorrow come, what schism,What loss, what cataclysmTo part us two at all?
The stars with ageless fireIn skies serene the sameObserve our young desireAnd watch our loves aflame.
A whisper soft, a soundUnfollowed, unattended,Shakes all the branches round:They sleep and it is ended.
You sleep and I aloneTorment myself with fearFor new joys coming nearAnd gracious actions done.
I am afraid to-night,We are too glad, too gay,Our life too sweet, too brightTo last another day.
The wild duck fly overFrom river to riverAnd so the young loverGoes roving for ever.
They fly together,He walks alone:No maiden can tetherHim with her moan.
At the bursting of blossomOn her breast his head;He has left her bosomEre the apples are red.
Across the valley,Singing he goes.In highway and alleyHe seeks a new rose.
Tell me, O maidens,You who all dayIn lyrical cadenceDance and play,
Why do you profferYour sweets to one,Who takes all you offerAnd leaves you to moan?
Now spring comes round againWith blossom on the tree,Dark blossom of the peach,Light blossom of the pearAnd amorous birds complainAnd nesting birds prepareAnd love's keen fingers reachAfter the heart of me.
But now the blackthorn blowsAbout the dusty laneAnd new buds peep and peer,I have no joy at all,For love draws near its closeAnd love's white blossoms fallAnd in the springing yearLove's fingers bring me pain.
My mother told me this for trueThat there behind the mountains,That wear the mists about their feetAnd clouds about their summits,There grows the weed Forgetfulness,It grows there in the gullies.
If I but knew the way thereto,Three days long would I wanderAnd pick a handful of the weedAnd drink it steeped in honey,That so I might forget your mouthA thousand times that kissed me.
Hawthorn above, as pale as frost,Against the paling sky is lost:On the pool's dark sheet below,The candid water-daisies glow.
As I came up and saw from farThe water littered, star on star,I thought the may had left its hedgeTo float upon the pool's dark edge.
The world's great ways uncloseThrough little wooded hills:An air that stirs and stills,Dies sighing where it roseOr flies to sigh againIn elms, whose stately rowsReceive the summer rain,And clouds, clouds, clouds go by,A drifting cavalry,In squadrons that disperseAnd troops that reassembleAnd now they pass and nowTheir glittering wealth disburseOn tufted grass a-trembleAnd lately leafing bough.
Thus through the shining dayWe'll love or pass awayLight hours in golden sleep,With clos'd half-sentient eyesAnd lids the light comes through,As sheep and flowers doWho no new toils devise,While shining insects creepAbout us where we lieBeneath a pleasant sky,In fields no trouble fills,Whence, as the traveller goes,The world's great ways uncloseThrough little wooded hills.
To A. G.
The moon poured down on tree and field,The leaf was silvered on the hedge,The sleeping kine were half revealed,Half shadowed at the pasture's edge.
By steep inclines and long descents,Amid the inattentive trees,You spoke of the four elements,The four eternal mysteries.
August is gone and now this is September,Softer the sun in a cloudier sky;Yellow the leaves grow and apples grow golden,Blackberries ripen and hedges undress.Watch and you'll see the departure of summer,Here is the end, this the last month of all:Pause and look back and remember its promise,All that looked open and easy in May.
Nothing will stay them, the seasons go onward,Lightly the bright months fly out of my hand,Softly the leading note calls a new octave;Autumn is coming and what have I done?Even as summer my young days go over,No day to pause on and nowhere to rest:Slowly they go but implacably onwards,Ah! and my dreams, alas, still they are dreams.
How shall I force all my flowers to fruition,Use up the season of ripening sun?Softly the years go but going have vanished,Soon I shall find myself empty and old.Yet I feel in myself bright buds and blossoms,Promise of mellowest bearing to be.Still I have time beside what I have wasted:Life shall be good to me, work shall be sweet.
From Amberley to Storrington,From Storrington to Amberley,From Amberley to WashingtonYou cannot see or smell the sea.But why the devil should you wishTo see the home of silly fish?
Since I prefer the earth and air,The fish may wallow in the seaAnd live the life that they prefer,If they will leave the land to me,So wish for each what he may wish,The earth for me, the sea for fish.
No more the English girls may goTo follow with the drumBut still they flock togetherTo see the soldiers come;For horse and foot are marching byAnd the bold artillery:They're going to the cruel warsIn Low Germany.
They're marching down by lane and townAnd they are hot and dryBut as they marched togetherI heard the soldiers cry:"O all of us, both horse and footAnd the proud artillery,We're going to the merry warsIn Low Germany."
August, 1914
The men that marched and sang with meAre most of them in Flanders now:I lie abed and hear the windBlow softly through the budding bough.
And they are scattered far and wideIn this or that brave regiment;From trench to trench across the mudThey go the way that others went.
They run with shining bayonetOr lie and take a careful aimAnd theirs it is to learn of deathAnd theirs the joy and theirs the fame.
The wind is cold and heavyAnd storms are in the sky:Our path across the heatherGoes higher and more high.
To right, the town we came from,To left, blue hills and sea:The wind is growing colderAnd shivering are we.
We drag with stiffening fingersOur rifles up the hill.The path is steep and tangledBut leads to Flanders still.
We come from dock and shipyard, we come from car and train,We come from foreign countries to slope our arms againAnd, forming fours by numbers or turning to the right,We're learning all our drill again and 'tis a pretty sight.
Our names are all unspoken, our regiments forgotten,For some of us were pretty bad and some of us were rottenAnd some will misremember what once they learnt with painAnd hit a bloody Serjeant and go to clink again.
Beat the knife on the plate and the fork on the can,For we're going in to dinner, so make all the noise you can,Up and down the officer wanders, looking blue,Sing a song to cheer him up, he wants his dinner too.
March into the dining-hall, make the tables rattleLike a dozen dam' machine guns in the bloody battle,Use your forks for drum-sticks, use your plates for drums,Make a most infernal clatter, here the dinner comes!
Under a grey dawn, timidly breaking,Through the little village the men are waking,Easing their stiff limbs and rubbing their eyes;From my misted window I watch the sun rise.In the middle of the village a fountain stands,Round it the men sit, washing their red hands.Slowly the light grows, we call the roll over,Bring the laggards stumbling from their warm cover,Slowly the company gathers all togetherAnd the men and the officer look shyly at the weather.By the left, quick march! Off the column goes.All through the village all the windows unclose:At every window stands a child, early waking,To see what road the company is taking.
Good luck, good health, good temper, these,A very hive of honey-beesTo make and store up happiness,Should wait upon you without cease,If I'd the power to call them downInto this stuffy little town,Where the dull air in sticky wreathsAfflicts a man each time he breathes.But since I have no power to callBenevolent spirits down at all,I'll wish you all the good I knowAnd close the chapter up and go.
Farewell to rising early, now comes the lying late,And long on the parade-ground my company shall waitBefore I come to join it on mornings cold and darkAnd no more shall I lead it across the rimy park.
The men shall still manoeuvre in sunshine and in rainAnd still they'll make the blunders I shall not check again;They'll march upon the highway in weather foul and fairAnd talk and sing with laughter and I shall not be there.
You go, brave friends, and I am cast to stay behind,To read with frowning eyes and discontented mindThe shining history that you are gone to make,To sleep with working brain, to dream and to awakeInto another day of most ignoble peace,To drowse, to read, to smoke, to pray that war may cease.The spring is coming on, and with the spring you goIn countries where strange scents on the April breezes blow;You'll see the primroses marched down into the mud,You'll see the hawthorn-tree wear crimson flowers of bloodAnd I shall walk about, as I did walk of old,Where the laburnum trails its chains of useless gold,I'll break a branch of may, I'll pick a violetAnd see the new-born flowers that soldiers must forget,I'll love, I'll laugh, I'll dream and write undying songsBut with your regiment my marching soul belongs.Men that have marched with me and men that I have ledShall know and feel the things that I have only read,Shall know what thing it is to sleep beneath the skiesAnd to expect their death what time the sun shall rise.Men that have marched with me shall march to peace again,Bringing for plunder home glad memories of pain,Of toils endured and done, of terrors quite brought under,And all the world shall be their plaything and their wonder.Then in that new-born world, unfriendly and estranged,I shall be quite alone, I shall be left unchanged.
Out of that noise and hurry of large lifeThe river flings me in an idle pool:The waters still go on with stir and strifeAnd sunlit eddies, and the beautifulTall trees lean down upon the mighty flow,Reflected in that movement. Beauty thereWaxes more beautiful, the moments growThicker and keener in that lovely airAbove the river. Here small sticks and strawsCome now to harbour, gather, lie and rot,Out of cross-currents and the water's flawsIn this unmoving death, where joy is not,Where war's a shade again, ambition rottenAnd bitter hopes and fears alike forgotten.
When I grow old they'll come to me and say:Did you then know him in that distant day?Did you speak with him, touch his hand, observeThe proud eyes' fire, soft voice and light lips' curve?And I shall answer: This man was my friend;Call to my memory, add, improve, amendAnd count up all the meetings that we hadAnd note his good and touch upon his bad.
When I grow older and more garrulous,I shall discourse on the dead poet thus:I said to him ... he answered unto me...He dined with me one night in Trinity...I supped with him in King's ... Ah, pitifulThe twisted memories of an ancient foolAnd sweet the silence of a young man dead!Now far in Lemnos sleeps that golden head,Unchanged, serene, for ever young and strong,Lifted above the chances that belongTo us who live, for he shall not grow oldAnd only of his youth there shall be toldMagical stories, true and wondrous tales,As of a god whose virtue never fails,Whose limbs shall never waste, eyes never fall,And whose clear brain shall not be dimmed at all.
The husht September afternoon was sweetWith rich and peaceful light. I could not hearOn either side the sound of moving feetAlthough the hidden road was very near.The laden wood had powdered sun in it,Slipped through the leaves, a quiet messengerTo tell me of the golden world outsideWhere fields of stubble stretched through counties wide.
And yet I did not move. My head reposedUpon a tuft of dry and scented grassAnd, with half-seeing eyes, through eyelids closed,I watched the languid chain of shadows pass,Light as the slowly moving shade imposedBy summer clouds upon a sea of glass,And strove to banish or to make more clearThe elusive and persistent dream of her.
And then I saw her, very dim at first,Peering for nuts amid the twisted boughs,Thought her some warm-haired dryad, lately burstOut of the chambers of her leafy house,Seeking for nuts for food and for her thirstSuch water as the woodland stream allows,After the greedy summer has drunk upAll but a drain within the mossy cup.
Then I, beholding her, was still a spaceAnd marked each posture as she moved or stood,Watching the sunlight on her hair and face.Thus with calm folded hands and quiet bloodI gazed until her counterfeited graceFaded and left me lonely in the wood,Glad that the gods had given so much as this,To see her, if I might not have her kiss.
This is the valley where we sojourn now,Cut up by narrow brooks and rich and greenAnd shaded sweetly by the waving boughAbout the trench where floats the soft sereneArun with waters running low and lowThrough banks where lately still the tide has been;Here is our resting-place, you walk with meAnd watch the light die out in Amberley.
The light that dies is soft and flooding still,Shed from the broad expanse of all the skiesAnd brimming up the space from hill to hill,Where yet the sheep in their sweet exercise,Roaming the meadows, crop and find their fillAnd to each other speak with moaning cries;We on the hill-side standing rest and seeThe light die out in brook and grass and tree.
Lately we walked upon the lonely downsAnd through the still heat of the heavy dayWe heard the medley of low drifting soundsAnd through the matted brambles found a wayOr lightly trod upon enchanted groundsMusing, or with rich blackberries made delay,Where feed such fruit on the rich air, untilWe struck like falling stars from Bignor Hill.
Down the vast slope, by chalky roads and steep,With trees and bushes hidden here and there,By circling turns into the valley deepWe came and left behind the hill-top airFor this cool village where to-night we sleep,A country meal, a country bed to share,With sleepy kisses and contented dreamsOver a land of still and narrow streams.
The light is ebbing in the dusky sky,The valley floor is in the shadow. Hark!With rushing and mysterious noises flyThe bats already, looking for the darkWith blinking still and unaccustomed eye.Now over Rackham Mount a steady sparkBurns, rising slowly in the rising night,And pledges peace and promises delight.
Now from the east the wheeling shade appearsAnd softly night into the valley falls,Soft on the meadows drop her dewy tears,Softly a darkness on the crumbled walls.Now in the dusk the village disappears,Men's songs are hushed there and the children's calls,While night in passage swallows up the landAnd in the shadow your hand seeks my hand.
Only the glimmering stars in heaven lieAnd unseen trees with rustling still betrayHow all the valley lives invisibly,Where dim sweet odours, remnants of the day,Float from the sleeping fields to please and die,Borne up by roaming airs, that drift awayBeyond our hearing, vagabond and light,To visit the cool meadows of the night.
Daphne is running, running through the grass,The long stalks whip her ankles as she goes.I saw the nymph, the god, I saw them passAnd how a mounting flush of tender roseInvaded the white bosom of the lassAnd reached her shoulders, conquering their snows.He wasted all his breath, imploring still:They passed behind the shadow of the hill.
The mad course goes across the silent plain,Their flying footsteps make a path of soundThrough all the sleeping country. Now with painShe runs across a stretch of stony groundThat wounds her soft-palmed feet and now againShe hastens through a wood where flowers abound,Which staunch her cuts with balsam where she treadsAnd for her healing give their trodden heads.
Her sisters, from their coverts unbetrayed,Look out in fright and see the two go by,Each unrelenting, and reflect dismayedHow fear and anguish glisten in her eye.By them unhelped goes on the fleeting maidWhose breath is coming short in agony:Hard at her heels pursues the golden boy,She flies in fear of him, she flies from joy.
His arrows scattered on the countryside,His shining bow deserted, he pursuesThrough hindering woodlands, over meadows wideAnd now no longer as he runs he suesBut breathing deep and set and eager-eyed.His flashing feet disperse the morning dews,His hands most roughly put the boughs away,That cross and cling and join and make delay.
Across small shining brooks and rills they leapAnd now she fords the waters of a stream;Her hot knees plunge into the hollows deepAnd cool, where ancient trout in quiet dream;The silver minnows, wakened from their sleepIn sunny shallows, round her ankles gleam;She scrambles up the grassy bank and on,Though courage and quick breath are nearly done.
Now in the dusky spinneys round the field,The fauns set up a joyous mimicry,Pursuing of light nymphs, who lightly yield,Or startle the young dryad from her treeAnd shout with joy to see her limbs revealedAnd give her grace and bid her swiftly flee:The hunt is up, pursuer and pursuedRun, double, twist, evade, turn, grasp, elude.
The woodlands are alive with chase and cry,Escape and triumph. Still the nymph in vain,With heaving breast in lovely agonyAnd wide and shining eyes that show her pain,Leads on the god and now she knows him nighAnd sees before her the unsheltered plain.His hot hand touches her white side and sheThrusts up her hands and turns into a tree.
There is an end of dance and mocking tune,Of laughter and bright love among the leaves.The sky is overcast, the afternoonIs dull and heavy for a god who grieves.The woods are quiet and the oak-tree soonThe ruffled dryad in her trunk receives.Cold grow the sunburnt bodies and the white:The nymphs and fauns will lie alone to-night.