Part 1

Produced by Al Haines

POEMS

By EDWARD SHANKS

LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.

3 Adam Street, Adelphi, W.C.

1916

_By the Same Author_

SONGS. 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_, and _The Pall Mall Gazette_. One of the Songs was printed for the first time in an anthology called _Cambridge Poets_. I am indebted to the editors of these for permission to reprint them here.

E. S.

CONTENTS

SONGS--

Song for an Unwritten Play The Cup A Rhymeless Song Meadow and Orchard Who thinks that he possesses Love in the Open Air Fear in the Night An Old Song Love's Close The Weed Recollection The Holiday Walking at Night Half Hope A New Song about the Sea

THE WINTER SOLDIER--

The Winter Soldier, i.-ix. The Pool The Dead Poet

PASTORAL PIECES--

The Vision in the Wood The Idyll The Pursuit of Daphne

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS--

Ode on Beauty Song in Time of Waiting Sonnets on Separation, i.-vii. The Morning Sun Persuasion Apology The Golden Moment Bramber Now would I be Midwinter Madness At a Lecture

SONGS

_Song for an Unwritten Play._

The moon's a drowsy fool to-night, Wrapped in fleecy clouds and white; And all the while Endymion Sleeps 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 pen And moves about like other men: Tom o' Bedlam now is still And sleeps beneath the hawthorn'd hill.

Only the Latmian shepherd deems Something missing from his dreams And tosses as he sleeps alone. Alas, alas, Endymion!

_The Cup._

As a hot traveller Going through stones and sands, Who sees clear water stir Amid the weary lands, Takes in his hollowed hands The clean and lively water, That trickles down his throat Like laughter, like laughter,

So when you come to me Across these parchèd places And all the waste I see Flowered with your graces, I take between my hands Your face like a rare cup, Where kisses mix with laughter, And drink and drink them up Like water, like water.

_A Rhymeless Song._

Rhyme with its jingle still betrays The song that's meant for one alone. Dearest, I dedicate to you A little song without a rhyme.

The most unpractised schoolboy knows That quiet kisses are the sweetest. Safe locked within my arms you lie, Let not a single sound betray us.

Suppose your jealous mother came By chance this way and found us here... Be still, be still, and not a sound Shall give her warning that we love.

_Meadow and Orchard._

My heart is like a meadow, Where clouds go over, Dappling the mingled grass and clover With mingled sun and shadow, With light that will not stay And 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 fruit That ripen there for me.

_Who thinks that he possesses._

Who thinks that he possesses His mistress with his kisses Knows neither love nor her. Nor beauty is not his Who seeks it in a kiss: If you would seek for this O seek it otherwhere!

Love is a flame, a spirit Beyond all earthly merit And all we dream of here; Strive as you may but still Love is intangible, No servant to your will But sovereign otherwhere.

_Love in the Open Air._

I'll love you in the open air But stuffy rooms and blazing fires And mirrors with familiar stare Cloak and befoul my high desires.

The dearest day that I have known Was in the fields, when driving rain Was like a veil around us thrown, A grey close veil without a stain.

The young oak-tree was stripped and bare But naked twigs a shelter made, Where curious cows came round to stare And 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 one Of these enchanted lover's hours.

_Fear in the Night._

I am afraid to-night, We are too glad, too gay, Our life too sweet, too bright To last another day.

What hap, what chance can fall, What sorrow come, what schism, What loss, what cataclysm To part us two at all?

The stars with ageless fire In skies serene the same Observe our young desire And watch our loves aflame.

A whisper soft, a sound Unfollowed, unattended, Shakes all the branches round: They sleep and it is ended.

You sleep and I alone Torment myself with fear For new joys coming near And gracious actions done.

I am afraid to-night, We are too glad, too gay, Our life too sweet, too bright To last another day.

_An Old Song._

The wild duck fly over From river to river And so the young lover Goes roving for ever.

They fly together, He walks alone: No maiden can tether Him with her moan.

At the bursting of blossom On her breast his head; He has left her bosom Ere the apples are red.

Across the valley, Singing he goes. In highway and alley He seeks a new rose.

Tell me, O maidens, You who all day In lyrical cadence Dance and play,

Why do you proffer Your sweets to one, Who takes all you offer And leaves you to moan?

_Love's Close._

Now spring comes round again With blossom on the tree, Dark blossom of the peach, Light blossom of the pear And amorous birds complain And nesting birds prepare And love's keen fingers reach After the heart of me.

But now the blackthorn blows About the dusty lane And new buds peep and peer, I have no joy at all, For love draws near its close And love's white blossoms fall And in the springing year Love's fingers bring me pain.

_The Weed._

My mother told me this for true That there behind the mountains, That wear the mists about their feet And 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 wander And pick a handful of the weed And drink it steeped in honey, That so I might forget your mouth A thousand times that kissed me.

_Recollection._

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 far The water littered, star on star, I thought the may had left its hedge To float upon the pool's dark edge.

_The Holiday._

The world's great ways unclose Through little wooded hills: An air that stirs and stills, Dies sighing where it rose Or flies to sigh again In elms, whose stately rows Receive the summer rain, And clouds, clouds, clouds go by, A drifting cavalry, In squadrons that disperse And troops that reassemble And now they pass and now Their glittering wealth disburse On tufted grass a-tremble And lately leafing bough.

Thus through the shining day We'll love or pass away Light hours in golden sleep, With clos'd half-sentient eyes And lids the light comes through, As sheep and flowers do Who no new toils devise, While shining insects creep About us where we lie Beneath a pleasant sky, In fields no trouble fills, Whence, as the traveller goes, The world's great ways unclose Through little wooded hills.

_Walking at Night._

_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.

_Half Hope._

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.

_A New Song about the Sea._

From Amberley to Storrington, From Storrington to Amberley, From Amberley to Washington You cannot see or smell the sea. But why the devil should you wish To see the home of silly fish?

Since I prefer the earth and air, The fish may wallow in the sea And 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.

THE WINTER SOLDIER

_September_ 1914--_April_ 1915

_The Winter Soldier._

I. TO BE SUNG TO THE TUNE OF HIGH GERMANY

No more the English girls may go To follow with the drum But still they flock together To see the soldiers come; For horse and foot are marching by And the bold artillery: They're going to the cruel wars In Low Germany.

They're marching down by lane and town And they are hot and dry But as they marched together I heard the soldiers cry: "O all of us, both horse and foot And the proud artillery, We're going to the merry wars In Low Germany."

_August_, 1914

II. THE COMRADES

The men that marched and sang with me Are most of them in Flanders now: I lie abed and hear the wind Blow softly through the budding bough.

And they are scattered far and wide In this or that brave regiment; From trench to trench across the mud They go the way that others went.

They run with shining bayonet Or lie and take a careful aim And theirs it is to learn of death And theirs the joy and theirs the fame.

III. IN TRAINING

The wind is cold and heavy And storms are in the sky: Our path across the heather Goes higher and more high.

To right, the town we came from, To left, blue hills and sea: The wind is growing colder And shivering are we.

We drag with stiffening fingers Our rifles up the hill. The path is steep and tangled But leads to Flanders still.

IV. THE OLD SOLDIERS

We come from dock and shipyard, we come from car and train, We come from foreign countries to slope our arms again And, 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 rotten And some will misremember what once they learnt with pain And hit a bloody Serjeant and go to clink again.

V. GOING IN TO DINNER

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 rattle Like 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!

VI. ON TREK

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 together And 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.

VII. LEAVING THE BILLET

Good luck, good health, good temper, these, A very hive of honey-bees To make and store up happiness, Should wait upon you without cease, If I'd the power to call them down Into this stuffy little town, Where the dull air in sticky wreaths Afflicts a man each time he breathes. But since I have no power to call Benevolent spirits down at all, I'll wish you all the good I know And close the chapter up and go.

VIII. THE FAREWELL

Farewell to rising early, now comes the lying late, And long on the parade-ground my company shall wait Before I come to join it on mornings cold and dark And no more shall I lead it across the rimy park.

The men shall still manoeuvre in sunshine and in rain And still they'll make the blunders I shall not check again; They'll march upon the highway in weather foul and fair And talk and sing with laughter and I shall not be there.

IX. ON ACCOUNT OF ILL HEALTH

You go, brave friends, and I am cast to stay behind, To read with frowning eyes and discontented mind The shining history that you are gone to make, To sleep with working brain, to dream and to awake Into 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 go In 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 blood And 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 violet And see the new-born flowers that soldiers must forget, I'll love, I'll laugh, I'll dream and write undying songs But with your regiment my marching soul belongs. Men that have marched with me and men that I have led Shall know and feel the things that I have only read, Shall know what thing it is to sleep beneath the skies And 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.

_The Pool._

Out of that noise and hurry of large life The river flings me in an idle pool: The waters still go on with stir and strife And sunlit eddies, and the beautiful Tall trees lean down upon the mighty flow, Reflected in that movement. Beauty there Waxes more beautiful, the moments grow Thicker and keener in that lovely air Above the river. Here small sticks and straws Come now to harbour, gather, lie and rot, Out of cross-currents and the water's flaws In this unmoving death, where joy is not, Where war's a shade again, ambition rotten And bitter hopes and fears alike forgotten.

_The Dead Poet._

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, observe The proud eyes' fire, soft voice and light lips' curve? And I shall answer: This man was my friend; Call to my memory, add, improve, amend And count up all the meetings that we had And 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, pitiful The twisted memories of an ancient fool And 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 belong To us who live, for he shall not grow old And only of his youth there shall be told Magical 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.

PASTORAL PIECES

_The Vision in the Wood._

The husht September afternoon was sweet With rich and peaceful light. I could not hear On either side the sound of moving feet Although the hidden road was very near. The laden wood had powdered sun in it, Slipped through the leaves, a quiet messenger To tell me of the golden world outside Where fields of stubble stretched through counties wide.

And yet I did not move. My head reposed Upon a tuft of dry and scented grass And, with half-seeing eyes, through eyelids closed, I watched the languid chain of shadows pass, Light as the slowly moving shade imposed By summer clouds upon a sea of glass, And strove to banish or to make more clear The 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 burst Out of the chambers of her leafy house, Seeking for nuts for food and for her thirst Such water as the woodland stream allows, After the greedy summer has drunk up All but a drain within the mossy cup.

Then I, beholding her, was still a space And marked each posture as she moved or stood, Watching the sunlight on her hair and face. Thus with calm folded hands and quiet blood I gazed until her counterfeited grace Faded 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.

_The Idyll._

This is the valley where we sojourn now, Cut up by narrow brooks and rich and green And shaded sweetly by the waving bough About the trench where floats the soft serene Arun with waters running low and low Through banks where lately still the tide has been; Here is our resting-place, you walk with me And watch the light die out in Amberley.

The light that dies is soft and flooding still, Shed from the broad expanse of all the skies And brimming up the space from hill to hill, Where yet the sheep in their sweet exercise, Roaming the meadows, crop and find their fill And to each other speak with moaning cries; We on the hill-side standing rest and see The light die out in brook and grass and tree.

Lately we walked upon the lonely downs And through the still heat of the heavy day We heard the medley of low drifting sounds And through the matted brambles found a way Or lightly trod upon enchanted grounds Musing, or with rich blackberries made delay, Where feed such fruit on the rich air, until We 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 deep We came and left behind the hill-top air For this cool village where to-night we sleep, A country meal, a country bed to share, With sleepy kisses and contented dreams Over 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 fly The bats already, looking for the dark With blinking still and unaccustomed eye. Now over Rackham Mount a steady spark Burns, rising slowly in the rising night, And pledges peace and promises delight.

Now from the east the wheeling shade appears And 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 land And in the shadow your hand seeks my hand.

Only the glimmering stars in heaven lie And unseen trees with rustling still betray How 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 away Beyond our hearing, vagabond and light, To visit the cool meadows of the night.

_The Pursuit of Daphne._

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 pass And how a mounting flush of tender rose Invaded the white bosom of the lass And 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 sound Through all the sleeping country. Now with pain She runs across a stretch of stony ground That wounds her soft-palmed feet and now again She hastens through a wood where flowers abound, Which staunch her cuts with balsam where she treads And 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 dismayed How fear and anguish glisten in her eye. By them unhelped goes on the fleeting maid Whose 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 pursues Through hindering woodlands, over meadows wide And now no longer as he runs he sues But 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 leap And now she fords the waters of a stream; Her hot knees plunge into the hollows deep And cool, where ancient trout in quiet dream; The silver minnows, wakened from their sleep In 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 tree And shout with joy to see her limbs revealed And give her grace and bid her swiftly flee: The hunt is up, pursuer and pursued Run, 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 agony And wide and shining eyes that show her pain, Leads on the god and now she knows him nigh And sees before her the unsheltered plain. His hot hand touches her white side and she Thrusts 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 afternoon Is dull and heavy for a god who grieves. The woods are quiet and the oak-tree soon The ruffled dryad in her trunk receives. Cold grow the sunburnt bodies and the white: The nymphs and fauns will lie alone to-night.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

_Ode on Beauty._