The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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![]() | II. |
![]() | III, IV, V, VI. |
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![]() | XIV. |
![]() | XVI. |
![]() | XVII. |
![]() | XVIII. |
![]() | XIX. |
![]() | XXI. |
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![]() | XXIV. |
![]() | XXVII. |
![]() | XXVIII. |
![]() | XXXI. |
![]() | XXXVII. |
![]() | XL. |
![]() | XLVII. |
![]() | XLVIII. |
![]() | LII. |
![]() | LIV. |
![]() | LVII. |
![]() | LIX. |
![]() | LXI. |
![]() | LXII. |
![]() | LXIII. |
![]() | LXVI. |
![]() | LXXIV. |
![]() | LXXVII. |
![]() | LXXXII. |
![]() | LXXXVI. |
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![]() | VIII. |
![]() | XIV. |
![]() | XVII. |
![]() | XIX. |
![]() | XX. |
![]() | XXVII. |
![]() | XXVIII. |
![]() | XXIX. |
![]() | XXX. |
![]() | XXXI. |
![]() | XXXIII. |
![]() | XLIII. |
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![]() | IX. |
![]() | X. |
![]() | XII. |
![]() | XIV. |
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![]() | XVI. |
![]() | XVII. |
![]() | XXI. |
![]() | XXIV. |
![]() | The Collected Works of William Morris | ![]() |
But men say that howsoever all other folk of earth
Loved Sigmund's son rejoicing, and were bettered of their mirth,
Yet ever the white-armed Gudrun, the dark-haired Niblung Maid,
From the barren heart of sorrow her love upon him laid:
He rejoiceth, and she droopeth; he speaks and hushed is she;
He beholds the world's days coming, nought but Sigurd may she see;
He is wise and her wisdom falters; he is kind, and harsh and strange
Comes the voice from her bosom laden, and her woman's mercies change.
He longs, and she sees his longing, and her heart grows cold as a sword,
And her heart is the ravening fire, and the fretting sorrows' hoard.
Loved Sigmund's son rejoicing, and were bettered of their mirth,
Yet ever the white-armed Gudrun, the dark-haired Niblung Maid,
From the barren heart of sorrow her love upon him laid:
He rejoiceth, and she droopeth; he speaks and hushed is she;
He beholds the world's days coming, nought but Sigurd may she see;
He is wise and her wisdom falters; he is kind, and harsh and strange
Comes the voice from her bosom laden, and her woman's mercies change.
He longs, and she sees his longing, and her heart grows cold as a sword,
And her heart is the ravening fire, and the fretting sorrows' hoard.
![]() | The Collected Works of William Morris | ![]() |