The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
![]() | I. |
![]() | II. |
![]() | III, IV, V, VI. |
![]() | VII. |
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![]() | 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. |
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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 | ![]() |
A fearful night, when some at last must think
That they of no more horror now might drink
Than they had drank; wherefore, with stress of fear
Made brave, some men must catch up shield and spear,
And leaderless go forth unto the flame
All eyes were turned to; but when daylight came,
With its grey light came naked death again,
And honourless did all things seem and vain
That man might do; the gates were left ajar,
And through the streets helpless in weed of war
The warders went: nought worth the King was made,
When by each man the truth of all was weighed,
And all seemed wanting: help there was in none.
That they of no more horror now might drink
Than they had drank; wherefore, with stress of fear
Made brave, some men must catch up shield and spear,
And leaderless go forth unto the flame
All eyes were turned to; but when daylight came,
With its grey light came naked death again,
And honourless did all things seem and vain
That man might do; the gates were left ajar,
And through the streets helpless in weed of war
The warders went: nought worth the King was made,
When by each man the truth of all was weighed,
And all seemed wanting: help there was in none.
![]() | The Collected Works of William Morris | ![]() |