The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
Lo, Sigurd lifteth his eyes, and he sees her silent and pale,
But fair as Odin's Choosers in the slain kings' wakening dale,
But sweet as the mid-fell's dawning ere the grass beginneth to move;
And he knows in an instant of time that she stands 'twixt death and love,
And that no man, none of the Gods can help her, none of the days,
If he turn his face from her sorrow, and wend on his lonely ways.
But she sees the change in his eyen, and her queenly grief is stirred,
And the shame in her bosom riseth at the long unspoken word,
And again with the speech she striveth; but swift is the thought in his heart
To slay her trouble for ever, and thrust her shame apart.
And he saith:
But fair as Odin's Choosers in the slain kings' wakening dale,
But sweet as the mid-fell's dawning ere the grass beginneth to move;
And he knows in an instant of time that she stands 'twixt death and love,
And that no man, none of the Gods can help her, none of the days,
If he turn his face from her sorrow, and wend on his lonely ways.
But she sees the change in his eyen, and her queenly grief is stirred,
And the shame in her bosom riseth at the long unspoken word,
And again with the speech she striveth; but swift is the thought in his heart
To slay her trouble for ever, and thrust her shame apart.
And he saith:
“O Maid of the Niblungs, thou art weary-faced this eve:
Nay, put thy trouble from thee, lest the shielded warriors grieve!
Or tell me what hath been done, or what deed have men forborne,
That here mid the warriors' joyance thy life-joy lieth forlorn?
For so may the high Gods help me, as nought so much I would,
As that round thine head this even might flit unmingled good!”
Nay, put thy trouble from thee, lest the shielded warriors grieve!
Or tell me what hath been done, or what deed have men forborne,
That here mid the warriors' joyance thy life-joy lieth forlorn?
For so may the high Gods help me, as nought so much I would,
As that round thine head this even might flit unmingled good!”
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |