The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
E'en as some sound that loud and louder grows
Within our dreams and yet is nought at all,
She heard her heart, as clinging to the wall
She strove to listen vainly; but at last
All feebleness from out her did she cast
With thought of love—and death that drew anear—
And therewithal a low voice did she hear,
She thought she knew.
Within our dreams and yet is nought at all,
She heard her heart, as clinging to the wall
She strove to listen vainly; but at last
All feebleness from out her did she cast
267
And therewithal a low voice did she hear,
She thought she knew.
“Milo the Colchian?”
It said as asking, and another man
Said “Here” in a hoarse voice and low; once more
The first voice said: “The Clearer of the Shore,
Known by no other name the people say,
Art thou here too?” A new voice muttered “Yea.”
And then again the first:
It said as asking, and another man
Said “Here” in a hoarse voice and low; once more
The first voice said: “The Clearer of the Shore,
Known by no other name the people say,
Art thou here too?” A new voice muttered “Yea.”
And then again the first:
“My tale told o'er
And none found wanting—since ye know wherefore
We here are met, few words are best to-night:
Within the ivory chamber, called the White,
Lies the ill monster's bane, asleep belike,
Or, at the worst without a sword to strike,
Or shield to ward withal; his wont it is
To have few by him; on this night of bliss
Those few of night-cropped herbs enow have drunk,
And deep in slumber like short death are sunk:
So light our work is; yet let those who lack
Heart thereunto e'en at this hour go back;
Though—let these take good heed that whatsoe'er
We risk hereafter they in likewise share,
Except the risk of dying by his sword.”
And none found wanting—since ye know wherefore
We here are met, few words are best to-night:
Within the ivory chamber, called the White,
Lies the ill monster's bane, asleep belike,
Or, at the worst without a sword to strike,
Or shield to ward withal; his wont it is
To have few by him; on this night of bliss
Those few of night-cropped herbs enow have drunk,
And deep in slumber like short death are sunk:
So light our work is; yet let those who lack
Heart thereunto e'en at this hour go back;
Though—let these take good heed that whatsoe'er
We risk hereafter they in likewise share,
Except the risk of dying by his sword.”
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |