The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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SONG
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 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
SONG
PUERIO winter, O white winter, wert thou gone
No more within the wilds were I alone
Leaping with bent bow over stock and stone,
No more alone my love the lamp should burn
Watching the weary spindle twist and turn,
Or o'er the web hold back her tears and yearn.
O winter, O white winter, wert thou gone!
PUELLÆ
Swift thoughts fly swiftlier than the drifting snow
And with the twisting thread sweet longings grow,
And o'er the web sweet pictures come and go,
For no white winter are we long alone.
PUERI
O stream so changed, what hast thou done to me
That I thy glittering ripples no more see
Wreathing with white her fair feet lovingly?
xxviij
With frightened eyes upon thy whirlpools brown
Drops to her feet again her girded gown.
O hurrying turbid stream, what hast thou done?
PUELLÆ
The clouds lift, telling of a happier day
When through the thin stream I shall take my way
Girt round with gold and garlanded with may:
What rushing stream can keep us long alone?
PUERI
O scorching Sun, O master of unrest!
Why must we toiling cast away the best,
Now when the bird sleeps by his empty nest?
See with my garland lying at her feet
In lonely labour stands my own, my sweet,
Above the quern half-filled with half-ground wheat.
O red taskmaster, that thy flames were done!
PUELLÆ
O love, to-night across the half-shorn plain
Shall I not go to meet the yellow wain,
A look of love at end of toil to gain,
What fiery sun can keep us long alone?
PUERI
O wilt thou ne'er depart, thou heavy night?
When will thy slaying bring on the morning bright
That leads my heavy feet to my delight,
Why lingerest thou to fill with wandering fears
My lone love's tired heart, her eyes with tears
Of pensive sorrow for the dying years;
Weaver of ill thoughts, when wilt thou begone?
PUELLÆ
Love, to the east are thine eyes turned as mine
In patient watching for the night's decline,
And hast thou seen like me this thin grey line,
Can any darkness keep us long alone?
xxix
O day, O day, is this a little thing
That thou so long unto thy life must cling
Because I gave thee such a welcoming?
I called thee King of all felicity,
I praised thee that thou broughtest joy so nigh.
Thine hours are turned to years, thou wilt not die,
O day so longed for, would that thou wert gone!
PUELLÆ
The light fails, love, the long day soon shall be
Nought but a pensive happy memory
Blessed for the tales it told to me and thee.
How hard it was, O love, to be alone.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |