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.

June 11, 1892

May 4, 1953

English

Edward Shanks

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Sonnets on Separation VII.

    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,
        And the low valleys dipt in sunny sleep.
    A sound brims all the country up, a noise
        Of wheels upon the road and labouring bees
    And trodden heather, mixing with the voice
        Of small lost winds that die among the trees.
    And we are prone beneath the flooding sun,
        So drenched, so soaked in the unceasing light,
    That colours, sounds and your close presence are one,
        A texture woven up of all delight,
    Whose shining threads my hands may not undo,
    Yet one thread runs the whole bright garment through.

Edward Shanks

The Cataclysm

When a great wave disturbs the ocean cold
And throws the bottom waters to the sky,
Strange apparitions on the surface lie,
Great battered vessels, stripped of gloss and gold,
And, writhing in their pain, sea-monsters old,
Who stain the waters with a bloody dye,
With unaccustomed mouths bellow and cry
And vex the waves with struggling fin and fold.

And with these too come little trivial things
Tossed from the deeps by the same casual hand;
A faint sea flower, dragged from the lowest sand,
That will not undulate its luminous wings
In the slow tides again, lies dead and swings
Along the muddy ripples to the land.

Edward Shanks

The Glade

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
    Frailly by earth or hands, but immortal in our dream.

We may touch the faint violets with the hands of thought,
    Or lay the pale core of the wild arum bare;
And for ever in our minds the white wild cherry is caught,
    Cloudy against the sky and melting into air.

This which we have seen is eternally ours,
    No others shall tread in the glade which now we see;
Their hands shall not touch the frail tranquil flowers,
    Nor their hearts faint in wonder at the wild white tree.

Edward Shanks

The Glow-Worm

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,
Shining steadily with a green light, the glow-worm lies.

We regard it; and this hill and all the other hills
That fall in folds to the river, very smooth and steep,
And the hangers and brakes that the darkness thickly fills
Fade like phantoms round the light, and night is deep, so deep, -

That all the world is emptiness about the still flame,
And we are small shadows standing lost in the huge night.
We gather up the glow-worm, stooping with dazzled sight,
And carry it to the little enclosed garden whence we came,

And place it on the short grass. Then the shadowy flowers fade,
The w...

Edward Shanks

The Golden Moment.

    Along the branches of the laden tree
        The ripe fruit smiling hang.    The afternoon
    Is emptied of all things done and things to be.
        Low in the sky the inconspicuous moon
    Stares enviously upon the mellow earth,
    That mocks her barren girth.

    Ripe blackberries and long green trailing grass
        Are motionless beneath the heavy light:
    The happy birds and creeping things that pass
        Go fitfully and stir as if in fright,
    That they have broken on some mystery
    In bramble or in tree.

    This is no hour for beings that are maiden;
        The spring is virgin, lightly afraid and cold,
    But now the whole round earth is ripe and laden
        And stirs beneath her coverlet of gold
    And in her agony ...

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 Morning Sun.

    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
    Have made for you a nest of warm delight;
    Your short crisp hair is thrown abroad and spilled
    Upon the pillow's whiteness and your eyes
    Are quiet and the round soft lids are filled
    With sleep.

                            But I shall watch until sunrise
    Creeps into chilly clouds and heavy air,
    Across the lands where you sleep and I wake,
    And I shall know the sun has seen you there,
    Unmoving though the winter morning break.
    Next, you will lift your hands and rub your eyes
    And turn to sleep again but wake and start
    And feel, half dreaming, with a dear surprise,
...

Edward Shanks

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 f...

Edward Shanks

The Rock Pool

This is the sea. In these uneven walls
    A wave lies prisoned. Far and far away
Outward to ocean, as the slow tide falls,
    Her sisters through the capes that hold the bay
Dancing in lovely liberty recede.
    Yet lovely in captivity she lies,
Filled with soft colours, where the wavering weed
    Moves gently and discloses to our eyes
Blurred shining veins of rock and lucent shells
    Under the light-shot water; and here repose
Small quiet fish and dimly glowing bells
    Of sleeping sea-anemones that close
Their tender fronds and will not now awake
Till on these rocks the waves returning break.

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

The Wind

Blow harder, wind, and drive
My blood from hands and face back to the heart.
Cry over ridges and down tapering coombs,
Carry the flying dapple of the clouds
Over the grass, over the soft-grained plough,
Stroke with ungentle hand the hill's rough hair
        Against its usual set.
Snatch at the reins in my dead hands and push me
Out of my saddle, blow my labouring pony
Across the track. You only drive my blood
Nearer the heart from face and hands, and plant there,
Slowly burning, unseen, but alive and wonderful,
        A numb, confusèd joy!
This little world's in tumult. Far away
The dim waves rise and wrestle with each other
And fall down headlong on the beach. And here
Quick gusts fly up the funnels of the valleys
And meet their raging fellows on the h...

Edward Shanks

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



<...

Edward Shanks

The Winter Soldier: 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,
    Unchang...

Edward Shanks

The Winter Soldier: 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.

Edward Shanks

Woman's Song

No more upon my bosom rest thee,
Too often have my hands caressed thee,
        My lips thou knowest well, too well;
Lean to my heart no more thine ear
My spirit's living truth to hear
        It has no more to tell.

In what dark night, in what strange night,
Burnt to the butt the candle's light
        That lit our room so long?
I do not know, I thought I knew
How love could be both sweet and true:
        I also thought it strong.

Where has the flame departed? Where,
Amid the empty waste of air,
        Is that which dwelt with us?
Was it a fancy? Did we make
Only a show for dead love's sake,
        It being so piteous?

No more against my bosom press thee,
Seek no more that my hands caress thee,
        Leave the sad li...

Edward Shanks

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