The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
 | VII. |
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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 love, alas! the sorer is my heart
The more I love,” she said, “we are alone;
Our loving life is not for anyone
But for our own selves—ah, deem all I said
Before those lips of thine on mine were laid
As said again and yet again! Some hate
Is round thee here, some undeserved strange fate
Awaits thee here in Lycia—yea, full sure
The hungry swords here may we twain endure;
But what then?—Of the dead what hast thou heard
That maketh thee so rash and unafeared?
Can the dead love, or is there any space
In their long sleep when they lay face to face
Soft as we do now? can their pale lips plead
The pleas of love? or can their fixed eyes lead
Heart unto heart? or hast thou heard that they
Can wait from weary day to weary day,
And hope, as I will, while thou gatherest fame?
Can they have pleasure there e'en in a name,
A memory? is their pain a pleasure there,
Are tears sweet, and the longing sobs that wear
The hours away, where life and hope are gone?
The more I love,” she said, “we are alone;
Our loving life is not for anyone
200
Before those lips of thine on mine were laid
As said again and yet again! Some hate
Is round thee here, some undeserved strange fate
Awaits thee here in Lycia—yea, full sure
The hungry swords here may we twain endure;
But what then?—Of the dead what hast thou heard
That maketh thee so rash and unafeared?
Can the dead love, or is there any space
In their long sleep when they lay face to face
Soft as we do now? can their pale lips plead
The pleas of love? or can their fixed eyes lead
Heart unto heart? or hast thou heard that they
Can wait from weary day to weary day,
And hope, as I will, while thou gatherest fame?
Can they have pleasure there e'en in a name,
A memory? is their pain a pleasure there,
Are tears sweet, and the longing sobs that wear
The hours away, where life and hope are gone?
“How can I any longer be alone?
Can I forget thee now the while I live?
O my beloved, must I strive and strive,
And move thee not? How sweet thou art to me!
How dull the coming day that knows not thee!”
Can I forget thee now the while I live?
O my beloved, must I strive and strive,
And move thee not? How sweet thou art to me!
How dull the coming day that knows not thee!”
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |