The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

But when all hushed and still the palace grew
She put her gold robes off, and on her drew
A dusky gown, and with a wallet small
And cutting wood-knife girt herself withal,
And from her dainty chamber softly passed
Through stairs and corridors, until at last
She came down to a gilded watergate,
Which with a golden key she opened straight,
And swiftly stept into a little boat,
And pushing off from shore, began to float
Adown the stream, and with her tender hands
And half-bared arms, the wonder of all lands,
Rowed strongly through the starlit gusty night
As though she knew the watery way aright.

So, from the city streets being gone apace,
Turning the boat's head, did she near a space
Where by the water's edge a thick yew wood
Made a black blot on the dim gleaming flood:
But when she reached it, dropping either oar

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Upon the grassy bank, she leapt ashore,
And to a yew-bough made the boat's head fast.
Then here and there quick glances round she cast
And listened, lest some wanderer should be nigh.
Then by the river's side she tremblingly
Undid the bands that bound her yellow hair
And let it float about her, and made bare
Her shoulder and right arm, and kneeling down,
Drew off her shoes, and girded up her gown,
And in the river washed her silver feet
And trembling hands; then turned about to meet
The yew-wood's darkness, gross and palpable,
As though she made for some place known full well.