The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
 | VII. |
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| XIV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XL. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| LII. |
| LIV. |
| LVII. |
| LIX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXVI. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXVI. |
| XC. |
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| VIII. |
| XIV. |
| XVII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXIII. |
| XLIII. |
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| IX. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XXI. |
| XXIV. |
 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
“O Three-formed, Venerable, dost thou know
That I have left to-night my golden bed
On the sharp pavement of thy wood to shed
Blood from my naked feet, and from mine eyes
Intolerable tears; to pour forth sighs
In the thick darkness, as with footsteps weak
And trembling knees I prowl about to seek
That which I need forsooth, but fear to find?
What wouldest thou, my Lady? Art thou blind,
Or sleepest thou, or dost thou, dread one, see
About me somewhat that misliketh thee?
What crown but thine is on mine unbound hair,
What jewel on my arms, or have I care
Against the flinty windings of thy wood
To guard my feet? or have I thought it good
To come before thee with unwashen hands?
That I have left to-night my golden bed
On the sharp pavement of thy wood to shed
Blood from my naked feet, and from mine eyes
Intolerable tears; to pour forth sighs
In the thick darkness, as with footsteps weak
And trembling knees I prowl about to seek
That which I need forsooth, but fear to find?
What wouldest thou, my Lady? Art thou blind,
Or sleepest thou, or dost thou, dread one, see
About me somewhat that misliketh thee?
What crown but thine is on mine unbound hair,
105
Against the flinty windings of thy wood
To guard my feet? or have I thought it good
To come before thee with unwashen hands?
“And this my raiment: Goddess, from three lands
The fleeces it was woven with were brought
Where deeds of thine in ancient days were wrought,
Delos, and Argos, and the Carian mead;
Nor was it made, O Goddess, with small heed;
By unshod maidens was the yarn well spun,
And at the moonrise the close web begun,
And finished at the dawning of the light.
The fleeces it was woven with were brought
Where deeds of thine in ancient days were wrought,
Delos, and Argos, and the Carian mead;
Nor was it made, O Goddess, with small heed;
By unshod maidens was the yarn well spun,
And at the moonrise the close web begun,
And finished at the dawning of the light.
“Nought hides me from the unseen eyes of night
But this alone, what dost thou then to me,
That at my need my flame sinks wretchedly,
And all is vain I do? Ah, is it so
That to some other helper I must go
Better at need; wilt thou then take my part
Once more, and pity my divided heart?
For never was I vowed to thee alone,
Nor didst thou bid me take the tight-drawn zone,
And follow through the twilight of the trees
The glancing limbs of trim-shod huntresses.
Therefore, look down upon me; and see now,
These grains of what thou knowest I will throw
Upon the flame, and then, if at my need
Thou still wilt help me, help; but if indeed
I am forsaken of thee utterly,
The naked knees of Venus will I try;
And I may hap ere long to please her well,
And one more story they may have to tell
Who in the flowery isle her praises sing.”
But this alone, what dost thou then to me,
That at my need my flame sinks wretchedly,
And all is vain I do? Ah, is it so
That to some other helper I must go
Better at need; wilt thou then take my part
Once more, and pity my divided heart?
For never was I vowed to thee alone,
Nor didst thou bid me take the tight-drawn zone,
And follow through the twilight of the trees
The glancing limbs of trim-shod huntresses.
Therefore, look down upon me; and see now,
These grains of what thou knowest I will throw
Upon the flame, and then, if at my need
Thou still wilt help me, help; but if indeed
I am forsaken of thee utterly,
The naked knees of Venus will I try;
And I may hap ere long to please her well,
And one more story they may have to tell
Who in the flowery isle her praises sing.”
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |