The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now waneth spring,
While all birds sing,
And the south wind blows
The earliest rose
To and fro
By the doors we know,
And the scented gale
Fills every dale.
Slow now are brooks running because of the weed,
And the thrush hath no cunning to hide her at need,
So swift as she flieth from hedge-row to tree
As one that toil trieth, and deedful must be.

And O! that at last,
All sorrows past,
This night I lay
'Neath the oak-beams grey!
O, to wake from sleep,
To see dawn creep
Through the fruitful grove
Of the house that I love!
O! my feet to be treading the threshold once more,
O'er which once went the leading of swords to the war!
O! my feet in the garden's edge under the sun,
Where the seeding grass hardens for haysel begun!

Lo, lo! the wind blows
To the heart of the Rose,
And the ship lies tied
To the haven side!

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But O for the keel
The sails to feel!
And the alien ness
Growing less and less;
As down the wind driveth and thrusts through the sea
The sail-burg that striveth to turn and go free,
But the lads at the tiller they hold her in hand,
And the wind our well-willer drives fierce to the land.

We shall wend it yet,
The highway wet;
For what is this
That our bosoms kiss?
What lieth sweet
Before our feet?
What token hath come
To lead us home?
'Tis the Rose of the garden walled round from the croft
Where the grey roof its warden steep riseth aloft,
'Tis the Rose 'neath the oaken-beamed hall, where they bide,
The pledges unbroken, the hand of the bride.