The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIV. |
 | XV. |
|
| III. |
| VI. |
| IX. |
| XV. |
| XX. |
| XXIX. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XLI. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVIII. |
| LI. |
| LV. |
| LVIII. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XXI. |
| XXIV. |
 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
Now unto supper all folk turned,
And 'neath the torches red gold burned,
And the best pageants of the day
Swept through the hall and said their say,
Departing e'en as men's lives go:
But though to Laurence slow and slow
These hours must needs seem, none the less
He gave himself to mirthfulness,
At least in seeming; till at last
All guests from out the palace passed.
And now the short soft summer night
Was left at peace for their delight;
But Laurence, muffled up and hid,
Shrinking, betwixt his servants slid,
For now he had a little space
To come unto that mystic place,
Where still his ring he thought to see.
A file and chisel now had he,
And weighty hammer; yet withal
As he drew toward the cloister-wall,
Well-nigh he called himself a fool,
To go with cloak and blacksmith's tool,
And lay hard blows upon a dream;
For now in sooth he nigh must deem
His eyes had mocked him; reaching soon
That cloister by the broad, high moon,
He hurried through the door, and heard
All round the sound of June's brown bird
Above the voices of the night;
Trembling, he sprang into the light
Through the black arches of the place,
And stealing on stood face to face
With the old smiling image there,
And lowered to her fingers fair
His troubled, wild, and shrinking eyes,
And stretched his hand out to the prize:—
His eyes, his hand, were there in vain.
And 'neath the torches red gold burned,
And the best pageants of the day
149
Departing e'en as men's lives go:
But though to Laurence slow and slow
These hours must needs seem, none the less
He gave himself to mirthfulness,
At least in seeming; till at last
All guests from out the palace passed.
And now the short soft summer night
Was left at peace for their delight;
But Laurence, muffled up and hid,
Shrinking, betwixt his servants slid,
For now he had a little space
To come unto that mystic place,
Where still his ring he thought to see.
A file and chisel now had he,
And weighty hammer; yet withal
As he drew toward the cloister-wall,
Well-nigh he called himself a fool,
To go with cloak and blacksmith's tool,
And lay hard blows upon a dream;
For now in sooth he nigh must deem
His eyes had mocked him; reaching soon
That cloister by the broad, high moon,
He hurried through the door, and heard
All round the sound of June's brown bird
Above the voices of the night;
Trembling, he sprang into the light
Through the black arches of the place,
And stealing on stood face to face
With the old smiling image there,
And lowered to her fingers fair
His troubled, wild, and shrinking eyes,
And stretched his hand out to the prize:—
His eyes, his hand, were there in vain.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |