The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
| I. |
| II. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
| VII. |
| 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. |
| VIII. |
| XIV. |
| XVII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXIII. |
| XLIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XXI. |
| XXIV. |
| The Collected Works of William Morris | ||
So through the silent city by the Norns their feet are brought,
Till lo, on a hill's uprising a huge house they behold,
And a hall with gates all brazen, and roof of ruddy gold:
Then they know the house of Atli, and they trow that sooth it is
That the Lord of such a dwelling may give his guest-folk bliss:
Then they loosen the swords in their scabbards, and upraise a mighty shout,
And the trumpet of the Niblungs through the lonely street rings out
And stilleth the wind in the wall-nook: but hark, as its echoes die,
How forth from that hall of the Eastlands comes the sound of minstrelsy,
And the brazen doors swing open: but the Niblungs are at the door,
And the bidden guests of Atli o'er the fateful threshold pour;
There the music faileth before them, till its sound is over and done,
And fair in the city behind them lies the flood of the morning sun:
No man of the Niblungs murmureth, none biddeth turn aback,
And still their hands are empty, and sleep the edges of wrack.
Till lo, on a hill's uprising a huge house they behold,
And a hall with gates all brazen, and roof of ruddy gold:
Then they know the house of Atli, and they trow that sooth it is
That the Lord of such a dwelling may give his guest-folk bliss:
Then they loosen the swords in their scabbards, and upraise a mighty shout,
And the trumpet of the Niblungs through the lonely street rings out
And stilleth the wind in the wall-nook: but hark, as its echoes die,
How forth from that hall of the Eastlands comes the sound of minstrelsy,
And the brazen doors swing open: but the Niblungs are at the door,
And the bidden guests of Atli o'er the fateful threshold pour;
There the music faileth before them, till its sound is over and done,
And fair in the city behind them lies the flood of the morning sun:
No man of the Niblungs murmureth, none biddeth turn aback,
And still their hands are empty, and sleep the edges of wrack.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | ||