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 | ![]() |
“Fear not,” he said; “not yet my days are done!
When on the deadly wall I stood alone,
And back the traitors fell from me, I felt
As though within me such a life there dwelt
As scarce could end—Lo now, if I depart
I lack the safeguard of thy faithful heart,
And meet new dangers that thou know'st not of.
Yea, listen, nor rebuke me—This our love;
Hast thou not heard how love may grow a-cold
Before the lips that called thereon wax old?
Ah, listen! seas betwixt us, and great pain,
And death of days that shall not be again;
And yearning life within us, and desire
That changes hearts as fire will quench the fire.
These are the engines of the Gods, lest we,
Through constant love, Gods too should come to be.
A little pain, a little fond regret,
A little shame, and we are living yet,
While love that should out-live us lieth dead—
When on the deadly wall I stood alone,
And back the traitors fell from me, I felt
As though within me such a life there dwelt
As scarce could end—Lo now, if I depart
I lack the safeguard of thy faithful heart,
And meet new dangers that thou know'st not of.
Yea, listen, nor rebuke me—This our love;
Hast thou not heard how love may grow a-cold
Before the lips that called thereon wax old?
Ah, listen! seas betwixt us, and great pain,
And death of days that shall not be again;
201
That changes hearts as fire will quench the fire.
These are the engines of the Gods, lest we,
Through constant love, Gods too should come to be.
A little pain, a little fond regret,
A little shame, and we are living yet,
While love that should out-live us lieth dead—
![]() | The Collected Works of William Morris | ![]() |