The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
III, IV, V, VI. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
VII. |
III. |
IV. |
VIII. |
IX. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIV. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXXI. |
XXXVII. |
XL. |
XLVII. |
XLVIII. |
LII. |
LIV. |
LVII. |
LIX. |
LXI. |
LXII. |
LXIII. |
LXVI. |
LXXIV. |
LXXVII. |
LXXXII. |
LXXXVI. |
XC. |
VIII. |
XIV. |
XVII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXIII. |
XLIII. |
IX. |
X. |
I. |
VII. |
VIII. |
XI. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XIV. |
V. |
XII. |
XIV. |
XVII. |
XXX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
IV. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
XXXIX. |
XL. |
XLI. |
XLII. |
XLIII. |
XII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
XIV. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VIII. |
IX. |
XI. |
XIII. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXII. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
VII. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XXI. |
XV. |
III. |
VI. |
IX. |
XV. |
XX. |
XXIX. |
XXXIV. |
XXXVII. |
XXXIX. |
XLI. |
XLIV. |
XLV. |
XLVIII. |
LI. |
LV. |
LVIII. |
XVI. |
II. |
VIII. |
XVII. |
XXI. |
III. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
X. |
XVII. |
XXIX. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXIV. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
The Collected Works of William Morris | ||
211
Thou speakest, and thy words are full of hope;
And yet with these no power thou hast to cope,
Who for each rye-head raise a spear aloft,
Who know as much of fear, or pity soft,
As do the elm-trees; whom the Gods drive on
Until the world once happy they have won
And made it desert, peopled by the ghosts
Of those who happy died before their hosts;
Or else lived on in fear and misery
A little while before God let them die—
Devils are these; but what scorn shall we get
When thou hast heard that these are women!—yet
Keep thou thy scorn till thou art face to face
With these a minute ere the fearful chase.”
The Collected Works of William Morris | ||