The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
So thought he pacing by Æetes' guilt,
And noted well how great and goodly built
Were all the houses; while the folk well clad,
And armed as though good store of wealth they had,
Peered forth upon them with a wondering gaze.
At last a temple, built in ancient days
Ere Æa was a town, they came unto;
Huge was it, but not fair unto the view
Of one beholding from without, but round
The ancient place they saw a green-garthed ground
Where laurels grew each side the temple door,
And two great images set up before
The brazen doors; whereof the one was She
Who draws this way and that the fitful sea;
The other the great God, the Life of man,
Who makes the brown earth green, the green earth wan,
From spring to autumn, through quick following days,
The lovely archer with his crown of rays.
And noted well how great and goodly built
Were all the houses; while the folk well clad,
And armed as though good store of wealth they had,
Peered forth upon them with a wondering gaze.
At last a temple, built in ancient days
Ere Æa was a town, they came unto;
Huge was it, but not fair unto the view
Of one beholding from without, but round
The ancient place they saw a green-garthed ground
Where laurels grew each side the temple door,
And two great images set up before
The brazen doors; whereof the one was She
Who draws this way and that the fitful sea;
The other the great God, the Life of man,
Who makes the brown earth green, the green earth wan,
From spring to autumn, through quick following days,
The lovely archer with his crown of rays.
Now over against this temple, towering high
Above all houses, rose majestically
Æetes' marble house: silent it stood,
Brushed round by doves, though many a stream of blood
Had trickled o'er its stones since it was built,
But now, unconscious of all woe and guilt,
It drank the sunlight that fair afternoon.
Above all houses, rose majestically
97
Brushed round by doves, though many a stream of blood
Had trickled o'er its stones since it was built,
But now, unconscious of all woe and guilt,
It drank the sunlight that fair afternoon.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |