Edward Shanks

What hast thou not withstood, Tempest-despising tree, Whose bloat and riven wood

The leafless trees, the untidy stack Last rainy summer raised in haste, Watch the sky turn from fair to black

From Amberley to Storrington, From Storrington to Amberley, From Amberley to Washington

Come out and walk. The last few drops of light Drain silently out of the cloudy blue; The trees are full of the dark-stooping night,

Rhyme with its jingle still betrays The song that's meant for one alone. Dearest, I dedicate to you

The wild duck fly over From river to river And so the young lover

Have I slept and failed to hear you calling? Cry again, belov'd; for sleep is heavy, Curtaining away the golden sunlight,

The lecturer took his place and looked At the eager women's faces, Then he cleared his throat and he jetted out

Before the downs in their great horse-shoes rise, I know a village where the Adur runs, Blown by sweet winds and by beneficent suns

Aristono', the fading shepherdess, Gathers the young girls round her in a ring, Teaching them wisdom of love,

My lovely one, be near to me to-night. For now I need you most, since I have gone Through the sparse woodland in the fading light,

In silence and in darkness memory wakes Her million sheath'd buds, and breaks That day-long winter when the light and noise

A month or twain to live on honeycomb Is pleasant, but to eat it for a year Is simply beastly.    Thus the poet spake,

Now would I be in that remov'd place Where the dim sunlight hardly comes at all And branches of the young trees interlace

Infinite peace is hanging in the air, Infinite peace is resting on mine eyes, That just an hour ago learnt how to bear

Still must your hands withhold your loveliness? Is your soul jealous of your body still? The fair white limbs beneath the clouding dress

As I lay in the early sun, Stretched in the grass, I thought upon My true love, my dear love,

The moon's a drowsy fool to-night, Wrapped in fleecy clouds and white; And all the while Endymion

Because the days are long for you and me, I make this song to lighten their slow time, So that the weary waiting fruitful be

I am afraid to-night, We are too glad, too gay, Our life too sweet, too bright

August is gone and now this is September, Softer the sun in a cloudier sky; Yellow the leaves grow and apples grow golden,

I'll love you in the open air But stuffy rooms and blazing fires And mirrors with familiar stare

Now spring comes round again With blossom on the tree, Dark blossom of the peach,

My heart is like a meadow, Where clouds go over, Dappling the mingled grass and clover

Hawthorn above, as pale as frost, Against the paling sky is lost: On the pool's dark sheet below,

As a hot traveller Going through stones and sands, Who sees clear water stir

The world's great ways unclose Through little wooded hills: An air that stirs and stills,

My mother told me this for true That there behind the mountains, That wear the mists about their feet

To A. G. The moon poured down on tree and field, The leaf was silvered on the hedge,

Who thinks that he possesses His mistress with his kisses Knows neither love nor her.

The    time shall be, old Wisdom says, when you Shall grow awrinkled and I, indifferent, Shall no more follow the light steps I knew

The time is all so short. One week is much To be without your deep and peaceful eyes, Your soft and all-contenting cheek, the touch

Is there no prophylactic against love? Can I with drugs not dull the ache one night? The rain is heavy and the low clouds move

Lovers that drug themselves for ecstasy Seek love too closely in an overdose, When the sweet spasm turns to agony

Through the closed curtains comes the early sun, First a pale finger, preluding the hand. Outside more certainly the day's begun,

To-morrow I shall see you come again Between the pale trees, through the sullen gate, Out of the dark and secret house of pain

We're at the world's top now.    The hills around Stand proud in order with the valleys deep, The hills with pastures drest, with tall trees crowned,

When a great wave disturbs the ocean cold And throws the bottom waters to the sky, Strange apparitions on the surface lie,

We may raise our voices even in this still glade: Though the colours and shadows and sounds so fleeting seem, We shall not dispel them. They are not made

The pale road winds faintly upward into the dark skies, And beside it on the rough grass that the wind invisibly stirs, Sheltered by sharp-speared gorse and the berried junipers,

Along the branches of the laden tree The ripe fruit smiling hang.    The afternoon Is emptied of all things done and things to be.

This is the valley where we sojourn now, Cut up by narrow brooks and rich and green And shaded sweetly by the waving bough

Perhaps you sleep now, fifty miles to the south, While I sit here and dream of you by night. The thick soft blankets drawn about your mouth

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

This is the sea. In these uneven walls A wave lies prisoned. Far and far away Outward to ocean, as the slow tide falls,

The husht September afternoon was sweet With rich and peaceful light.    I could not hear On either side the sound of moving feet

Blow harder, wind, and drive My blood from hands and face back to the heart. Cry over ridges and down tapering coombs,

September 1914, April 1915 The Winter Soldier. I.    TO BE SUNG TO THE TUNE OF HIGH GERMANY

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

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

No more upon my bosom rest thee, Too often have my hands caressed thee, My lips thou knowest well, too well;