The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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| III, IV, V, VI. |
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| XIV. |
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| XXX. |
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| XXIV. |
 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
153
Then Michael, thanking him, passed on
And soon the gilded wicket won,
And went into that pleasance sweet,
And wandered there with wary feet
And open mouth, as though he deemed
That in some lovely dream he dreamed,
And feared to wake to common day,
So fair was all; and e'en decay
Brought there but pensive loveliness,
Where autumn those old walls did bless
With wealth of fruit, and through the grass
Unscared the spring-born thrush did pass,
Who yet knew nought of winter-tide.
And soon the gilded wicket won,
And went into that pleasance sweet,
And wandered there with wary feet
And open mouth, as though he deemed
That in some lovely dream he dreamed,
And feared to wake to common day,
So fair was all; and e'en decay
Brought there but pensive loveliness,
Where autumn those old walls did bless
With wealth of fruit, and through the grass
Unscared the spring-born thrush did pass,
Who yet knew nought of winter-tide.
So wandering, to a fountain's side
He came, and o'er the basin hung
Watching the fishes, as he sung
Some song remembered from of old,
Ere yet the miller won that gold.
But soon made drowsy with his ride,
And the warm hazy autumn-tide,
And many a musical sweet sound,
He cast him down upon the ground
And watched the glittering water leap,
Still singing low, nor thought to sleep.
He came, and o'er the basin hung
Watching the fishes, as he sung
Some song remembered from of old,
Ere yet the miller won that gold.
But soon made drowsy with his ride,
And the warm hazy autumn-tide,
And many a musical sweet sound,
He cast him down upon the ground
And watched the glittering water leap,
Still singing low, nor thought to sleep.
But scarce three minutes had gone by
Before, as if in mockery,
The starling chattered o'er his head,
And nothing he rememberèd,
Nor dreamed of aught that he had seen.
Before, as if in mockery,
The starling chattered o'er his head,
And nothing he rememberèd,
Nor dreamed of aught that he had seen.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |