The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
She ceased, and leaned back, kneeling, and all spent
And panting, with her trembling fingers rent
The linen from her breast, and with shut eyes,
Waited awhile as for some great surprise,
But yet heard nothing stranger or more loud
Than the leaves' rustle; a long bank of cloud
Lay in the south, low down, and scarcely seen
'Gainst the grey sky, and when at last the Queen
Opened her eyes, she started eagerly,
Although the strangest thing her eyes could see
Was but the summer lightning playing there;
Then she put back her over-hanging hair,
And in a hard and grating voice she said:
And panting, with her trembling fingers rent
The linen from her breast, and with shut eyes,
108
But yet heard nothing stranger or more loud
Than the leaves' rustle; a long bank of cloud
Lay in the south, low down, and scarcely seen
'Gainst the grey sky, and when at last the Queen
Opened her eyes, she started eagerly,
Although the strangest thing her eyes could see
Was but the summer lightning playing there;
Then she put back her over-hanging hair,
And in a hard and grating voice she said:
“O Sthenobœa, art thou then afraid
Of a God's presence?—did a God e'er come
To help a good and just man when his home
Was turned to hell? I was but praying here
Unto myself, who to myself am dear
Alone of all things, mine own self to aid.
And therewithal I needs must grow afraid
E'en of myself—O wretch, unholpen still,
To-morrow early thou shalt surely fill
The measure of thy woe—and then—and then—
Alas for me! What cruellest man of men
Had made me this, and left me even thus?”
Of a God's presence?—did a God e'er come
To help a good and just man when his home
Was turned to hell? I was but praying here
Unto myself, who to myself am dear
Alone of all things, mine own self to aid.
And therewithal I needs must grow afraid
E'en of myself—O wretch, unholpen still,
To-morrow early thou shalt surely fill
The measure of thy woe—and then—and then—
Alas for me! What cruellest man of men
Had made me this, and left me even thus?”
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |