University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The Collected Works of William Morris

With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris

expand sectionI. 
expand sectionII. 
expand sectionIII, IV, V, VI. 
collapse sectionVII. 
expand section 
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
expand section 
collapse section 
expand sectionXIV. 
expand sectionXVI. 
expand sectionXVII. 
expand sectionXVIII. 
expand sectionXIX. 
expand sectionXXI. 
expand sectionXXII. 
expand sectionXXIV. 
expand sectionXXVII. 
expand sectionXXVIII. 
expand sectionXXXI. 
expand sectionXXXVII. 
expand sectionXL. 
expand sectionXLVII. 
expand sectionXLVIII. 
collapse sectionLII. 
  
expand sectionLIV. 
expand sectionLVII. 
expand sectionLIX. 
expand sectionLXI. 
expand sectionLXII. 
expand sectionLXIII. 
expand sectionLXVI. 
expand sectionLXXIV. 
expand sectionLXXVII. 
expand sectionLXXXII. 
expand sectionLXXXVI. 
expand sectionXC. 
  
expand section 
expand sectionVIII. 
expand sectionXIV. 
expand sectionXVII. 
expand sectionXIX. 
expand sectionXX. 
expand sectionXXVII. 
expand sectionXXVIII. 
expand sectionXXIX. 
expand sectionXXX. 
expand sectionXXXI. 
expand sectionXXXIII. 
expand sectionXLIII. 
expand section 
expand sectionIX. 
expand sectionX. 
expand sectionXII. 
expand sectionXIV. 
expand sectionXV. 
expand sectionXVI. 
expand sectionXVII. 
expand sectionXXI. 
expand sectionXXIV. 

The night had fallen or ere the tale was done,
And on the hall-floor now the pale moon shone
In fitful gleams, for the snow fell no more,
But ragged clouds still streamed the pale sky o'er:
A while they sat, and seemed to hear the sea
Beat 'gainst the ice-glazed cliffs unceasingly,
Though nought belike that noise was but the wind
Caught in some corner, half blocked-up and blind
With the white drift:—just so the mournfulness
Of the tale told out did their hearts oppress
With seeming sorrow, for a glorious life
Twisted awry and crushed dead in the strife
Long ages past; while yet more like it was
That with the old tale o'er their souls did pass
Shades of their own dead hopes, and buried pain
By measured words drawn from its grave again,
Though no more deemed a strange unheard-of thing
Made but for them; as when their hearts did cling
To those dead hopes of things impossible,
While their tale's ending yet was left to tell.