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. 
expand sectionVII. 
expand sectionIX. 
expand sectionX. 
expand sectionXII. 
collapse sectionXIV. 
collapse section 
  
expand sectionII. 
expand sectionIII. 
expand sectionIV. 
expand sectionV. 
expand sectionVI. 
expand sectionVIII. 
expand sectionIX. 
expand sectionXI. 
expand sectionXIII. 
expand sectionXV. 
expand sectionXVI. 
expand sectionXVII. 
expand sectionXIX. 
expand sectionXX. 
expand sectionXXII. 
expand sectionXXVI. 
expand sectionXXVII. 
expand sectionXXVIII. 
expand sectionXXIX. 
expand sectionXXX. 
expand sectionXXXI. 
expand section 
expand sectionXV. 
expand sectionXVI. 
expand sectionXVII. 
expand sectionXXI. 
expand sectionXXIV. 

Yet ere the night beyond its midst was worn,
Another tale unto their ears was borne
That cast into their hearts the ancient fear,
And the Gods' threatening easier seemed to bear
Than this that fell on them.
At dead of night
The grey clouds drew apart, the moon shone bright

208

Over a dripping world; and some folk slept
Wearied by fear, if some their tired limbs kept
Ready for flight; then clattering horse-hooves came
To the east gate, and one called out the name
Of him who had the guard; so said the man
That forth he went into the moonlight wan,
And saw nought but the tall black-shadowed trees
Waving their dripping boughs in the light breeze,
So went back scared. But in a while again
The galloping of horse did he hear plain,
But he and his sat fast and spake no word,
And scarce for fear might they hold spear or sword.
Nigher the sound came, till it reached the gate;
Then as the warders did abide their fate,
Thinking to see the gates burst open wide,
And death in some strange shape betwixt them ride,
The gates were smitten on with hasty blows,
And breathless cries of wild entreaty rose
Up through the night:
“Open, O open ye
Who sit in peace, and let in misery!
Do ye not see the red sky at our backs?
And how the earth all quiet places lacks,
And shakes beneath the myriad hooves of steel?
Open, ah open, as ye hope for weal!
For ships lie at your quays with sails all bent
And oars made ready—Open, we are spent!
Do ye not hear them? Open, Lycian men!”