Song: 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.

Edward Shanks

Edward Shanks was an English writer, poet, and novelist, known for his literary contributions during the early 20th century. Born on June 11, 1892, in London, Shanks attended Cambridge University where he was a member of the 'War Poets' of World War I. His works reflect the turmoil and changes of his time. Besides poetry, he wrote novels, essays, and book reviews, contributing significantly to English literature. He passed away on May 4, 1953.

Edward Shanks

At a Lecture.

Edward Shanks, Simple Poetry

Sonnets on Separation III.

Edward Shanks, Simple Poetry

Song: Meadow and Orchard.

Edward Shanks, Simple Poetry

Memory

Edward Shanks, Simple Poetry

English

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A Night-Piece

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,
The fields are wet with dew.

All's quiet in the wood but, far away,
Down the hillside and out across the plain,
Moves, with long trail of white that marks its way,
The softly panting train.

Come through the clearing. Hardly now we see
The flowers, save dark or light against the grass,
Or glimmering silver on a scented tree
That trembles as we pass.

Hark now! So far, so far ... that distant song ...
Move not the rustling grasses with your feet.
The dusk is full of sounds, that all along
The muttering boughs repeat.

So far, so faint, we lift our heads in doubt.
Wind, or the blood that beats within our e...

Edward Shanks

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 br...

Edward Shanks

The Walk At Midnight

Soft, shadowy moon-beam! by the light
Sleeps the wide meer serenely pale:
How various are the sounds of night,
Borne on the scarely-rising gale!

The swell of distant brook is heard,
Whose far-off waters faintly roll;
And piping of the shrill small bird,
Arrested by the wandring owl.

Come hither! let us thread with care
The maze of this green path, which binds
The beauties of the broad parterre,
And thro yon fragrant alley winds.

Or on this old bench will we sit,
Round which the clustring woodine wreathes;
While birds of night around us flit;
And thro each lavish wood-walk breathes,

Unto my ravishd senses, brought
From yon thick-woven odorous bowers,
The still rich breeze, with incense fraught
Of glowing fruits and sp...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

In Absence

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,
Where in time past we two have walked alone,
Heard the loud nightjar spin his pleasant note,
And seen the wild rose folded up for sleep,
And whispered, though the soft word choked my throat,
Your dear name out across the valley deep.
Be near to me, for now I need you most.
To-night I saw an unsubstantial flame
Flickering along those shadowy paths, a ghost
That turned to me and answered to your name,
Mocking me with a wraith of far delight.
... My lovely one, be near to me to-night.

Edward Shanks

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 drea...

Edward Shanks

A Lonely Place

The leafless trees, the untidy stack
    Last rainy summer raised in haste,
Watch the sky turn from fair to black
    And watch the river fill and waste;

But never a footstep comes to trouble
    The sea-gulls in the new-sown corn,
Or pigeons rising from late stubble
    And flashing lighter as they turn.

Or if a footstep comes, 'tis mine
    Sharp on the road or soft on grass:
Silence divides along my line
    And shuts behind me as I pass.

No other comes, no labourer
    To cut his shaggy truss of hay,
Along the road no traveller,
    Day after day, day after day.

And even I, when I come here,
    Move softly on, subdued and still,
Lonely as death, though I can hear
    Men shouting on the other hill.

Day aft...

Edward Shanks