Edward Tennant
How shall I tell you of the freedom of the Downs ?
You who love the dusty life and durance of great towns,
And think the only flowers that please embroider ladies’ gowns,
How shall I tell you ?
How shall I tell you of the Avon’s sweeping flow,
With the pollards like old henchmen in a sage and solemn
row,
And the silvery waters-cuts that shine when thymy breezes
blow ?
How shall I tell you ?
How shall I tell you of the roads that stretch away
Like streamers from a dancing pole in the tripsome month
of May,
For what care you for aught beside your porto and tokay ?
How shall I tell you ?
How shall I tell you how sweet it is to lie
Upon the cool and springy turf and gaze into the sky ?
But it would only crease your vest and set your locks
awry —
I shall not tell you.
Poperinghe,
July, 1916
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem speaks of a longing to share the beauty of nature with someone who can’t, or won’t, understand it. The speaker reflects on the freedom and simplicity of the countryside, contrasting it with the confined, artificial life of cities. There’s a sense of frustration in their voice, as though trying to describe something sacred to someone indifferent or incapable of appreciating it. This tension drives the poem, making it feel like an almost one-sided conversation with an unseen, uninterested listener.
The imagery in the poem is simple but vivid. The Downs are free and open, a stark contrast to the “durance of great towns.” The Avon, with its orderly pollards and sparkling water, paints a picture of quiet, natural elegance. The roads stretching out like ribbons and the “cool and springy turf” invite the reader into a world that’s calm and inviting. The speaker clearly treasures this world, but they’re met with the imagined apathy of the person they’re addressing, who seems more concerned with wine and appearance than nature’s gifts.
What’s striking is the speaker’s growing resignation. With each stanza, the refrain shifts from “how shall I tell you?” to “I shall not tell you.” It’s as though they start out hopeful that they might bridge the gap, only to realize the futility of their effort. The poem isn’t just about the contrast between nature and city life; it’s about the disconnect between people who value different things. The speaker knows that no amount of description can make someone care if they don’t already.
It’s worth remembering the poem’s context: Poperinghe, July 1916. This was written during World War I, in a place not far from the front lines. The longing for the Downs, the Avon, and the freedom of open spaces could be amplified by the claustrophobia and destruction of war. The beauty of nature becomes more poignant when contrasted with the devastation around the poet. The imagined indifference of the person being addressed might reflect a deeper frustration with those far from the war, detached from its realities and the value of simple, unspoiled things.
The poem is understated but deeply personal. It doesn’t lecture or moralize; it simply laments the inability to share something precious. There’s a quiet bitterness in the closing line, where the speaker gives up entirely. Instead of trying to explain the beauty they see, they retreat into silence. It’s a refusal, but it’s also an acceptance—an acknowledgment that some divides can’t be crossed.