Poems

by Edward Shanks

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.