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

It is well said among wise men
If ye cannot have twelve take ten,
Also I say for my part
That the grey smock may cover a heart
Good enough for the gown of a king:
May this tale be to your liking.

[OMITTED]

Now this same lusty king
Had a dame, a right sweet thing,
And he loved her passing well
In such wise it were hard to tell,
Over long at Candlemas
The snow lay upon the grass,
Thereupon did the Queen pass
With the King from the minster.

[THE LADY OF THE WASTED LAND.]

[Fragment from quarto note-book.]

I say no wonder if he scarce could see
For giddy pleasure what fair things were writ
Upon the vellum—flower and bird and tree
Danced in the merry sun because of it.

I say no wonder if he found it sweet
After some foil in field or tournament
Kissing together to sit feet to feet
And ever round him her two long arms went...

xxj

with what surprise

Her kindred over sea would hear of it—
And would they arm for vengeance or just take
Some pounds of gold and after that would sit
In some gilt chantry silent for her sake

Wishing the mass well over...

xxij

[A TALE OF PLANTAGENETS.]

[Fragment from quarto note-book.]

Like the red side of a ripe apple
The face grew of this maid,
Then said the King, “Say out your mind
And be ye not afraid.”

[OMITTED]

But I have a vow to our Lord God
Also to S. Lucy
That I would wed no man on earth
But if he brought me thinges three;

And first from King Philip of France
He must take the right-hand glove,
When I wear this on my right hand
So far shall he have my love

[OMITTED]

Heed me well Sir Scheneschal,
Take good care of this lady,
In the little red house of Havering
Let her abide both night and day.

xxiij

It standeth right pleasantly
At the skirt of Waltham Chase;
Let her bide in that house and garden—
She shall see no man's face.

But she may have damozels
To wait on her body
And all things fitting to her estate
Such as it should be.

Right little time they lost, I trow
In a barget they set her
With hale and how they set sail
Upon the Thames river.

Right evil cheer had the Lady Anne,
The wan water was but cold,
She said as she fell a-weeping,
“I shall have no pity till I am old.”

But they went up the river of Thames
Till to Barking town came they
And they mounted on goodly steeds
And gat them quick away.

To the little red house of Havering
They rode through the green wood:
When the door shut after that lady
Right cold became her blood.

xxiv

For wete you well my good maidens
My love is a poor knight,
Yet I love him right sorely
For he is strong and wyght.

[OMITTED]

He will be wood when he cometh back
That never again he may see me.

[OMITTED]

xxv

[FRAGMENT FROM QUARTO NOTE-BOOK.]

I went through many lands and found no rest
When I had left you and this castle here,
Nor found I any counsel what was best
But went about all dizzied for a year.
At last it chanced on a September day
When all the sleeping sky was one blue grey,
I rode unhappily through a green way,
Neither did any come for me to fight or fear;

My pennon no wind shook, my mail-hood lay aback,
I looked down on my breast and saw my bearing there—
Gold dragons on green ground—my bridle-reins were slack,
I held within my mouth locks of my long lank hair,
But as I rode faint singing came to me
From the right hand, I thought that it might be
The voice of damozels at a tourney.
So toward that voice I went sideways till I came where

Many pavilions on an open lawn
With gold and blue and scarlet scared the birds.
My heart shrunk back all sickened at the dawn
Of arms, embroidery, and clear sung words,
Nevertheless I set my lips together
Till the blood came, not felt—as in hot weather
The archer does not feel the strain of leather
When as he marches towards the foe his coat he girds.

Mad as I was I stopped and thought, There now,
I knew that I had seen that place before,

xxvj

And those pavilions—why 'twas even so
Last year: then some fear pierced to my heart's core;
I entered through that same close rose-fence
And went towards the great pavilion whence
Some fear or horror struck upon my sense—
O pity me, I pray you, this is what I saw.

A silken carpet lay upon the grass
And on a silken bed lay Eleanore:
I was in time to see the last breath pass
From her half-opened lips; besides I saw
Sitting along the bed on the further side
Ten maidens fairly robed and thus they cried,
“Here comes Sir John to claim his doomed bride.”
Thereat they turned away, dropped their eyes toward the floor,

Whereat I was abashed and thought what I could do;
I closed her wide [eyes] first, lifted from off the ground
Her heavy golden hair; her arms were stretched straight so,
Crosswise I laid them down wards, yet there came no sound,
So when I saw she moved not her head
Nor oped her eyes nor moved her hands, I said
Quite softly to myself, Then she is dead.
And yet I neither screamed nor fell down in a swound

But only stood still; for a while I ween
I knew not where I was but felt a globe
Of whirling black with spots of red and green
Shrink and expand before me till the robe
Of one of those poor downcast maidens there
I saw fall on her head about her hair,
Who fainted had with grief lay on the bier.
When she was lifted up I saw no deep green robe—

No robe of Eleanore but only deep green meads,
Between the hazel hedge the gleaming of gold sheaves,
And, dream within a dream, a maiden crowned with weeds
Standing between two trees beneath the shivering leaves—

xxvij

Yea day by day I used to go and gaze
In the old passed time, the sweet old days,
I used to draw a maiden from the haze
For my delight, to stand beneath the aspen leaves;

I could see all her throat because her chin was raised,
And I could see the lashes of her eyes
Laid downward on her cheek, and as I gazed
With beating heart could see her bosom rise
Heaving and falling like a quiet sea—
Whose robes of green and white and purple be
Just as hers were, each side of her a tree
Trembled with strange delight to feel her hands, the flies

Along the bridges of her outstretched arms
Marched humming to the city of her face,
By the Cathedral of her eyes sang psalms,
Held her white forehead as a hallowed place
For burying the dead things of the mind.
With undropped lids I gazed till I was blind
Then dropped my head and wept because the wind,
As I knew all too well, was making clear that space.

That was at sunset time: all the night long
Thereafter very sullen would I lie
Till the next noon unless the wind was strong—
The wind was ever a kind friend to me.
But the next day at noon I used to lean
Against an aspen, get a sense of green
To my heart through my eyes and soon I ween
Came forth my dream of dreams each hand laid on a tree.

I used to think it was a sort of right
That I should get each day some happiness...

O God it was not fair, no part at all
Was left of any day, and day by day
The hours lengthen and it doth befall

xxviij

I sleep not, half forgetful in a way—
I sleep one hour only of the night.
At dawn the moon fades and my strained sight
Drops from the empty helm so strange in the grey light
I try to shout, Lord help! but nought at all can say.

Ah, while I stood in that pavilion
And saw the pale vexed maidens arm in arm,
And saw the roof above with stars thereon,
I reeled and fell down straight from memory and strange calm—
Because I saw myself as I did say
Sitting upon my bed waiting for day
My blue enamelled helm touched by the grey
Not showing that blue now, while from the neighbouring elm

The cocks send out that strange unearthly sound
Cock crow at dawn, dawn slow in coming round,
So slow and very cold in coming round—
Perhaps Doomsday is past and it will not come now—
In those cold dawns I pray thee, Eleanore,
Between the roses drained of colour, come no more
With fall of moist white feet upon the marble floor—
Eleanore I pray thee sit not there so calm....

Likewise I saw myself in the hot noon
Sitting alone upon a bank of sand,
And few men come there now, yet in the moon
The witches gather there from many a land,
Yet I sat there alone and let the sun
Beat on my helmed head feeling the great drops run
Over my cheeks like tears and dropping one by one
On the steel plates of my knees or else upon my hand.

And this I did because I feared the shade,
I feared to see a ghost clad in deep green
In the likeness of a very beauteous maid

xxix

But yet so pale, so pale, with no joy to be seen,
I fear to see her cover her thin face
With her thin hands, then weeping in that place
To kneel in last year's leaves to hide her face.

For if I were to see only her stately mien
There would no longer be a chance to me
Of dying but for ever I should live
Walk slowly in the sun...

O Eleanore who liest there alone,
Ah so alone, the blue blue roof above,
I pray thee let me be, and make low moan
My lips on your lips, for I am in love—
For what thing love I better than thine eyes?
What thing, O Love, except perhaps those wise
Kind lips, the little hand that tries
By witching trembling grip to say it is in love.

Dead is she then—behold I pass my lips
Over her cold face moaning, like a bee
Who when the choristers are chaunting, slips
Along the stained glass in the clerestory
Brushing the face of Christ at Bethlehem;
I kissed her o'er and o'er right from the boddice hem
Up to the golden locks yea sunk my lips in them—
I never knew till now how sweet a kiss could be.

Alas God would not let me stay there long;
One of those maidens rising from her place
Came to me and on my shoulder laid a strong
Indignant grasp, and when I saw her face
I knew that I must go, so piteously
I moved to the bier-foot: she to me
Turned full her face like a fierce dog, then she
Passed by the feet in going to her place—

xxx

Her long red raiment brushed, as she went past,
The silk from off the feet of Eleanore,
I doubted, shivered much, but then at last
Turned weeping back to my own love once more,
I bent down till my wet cheek touched her foot,
Took off the gold shoe. I felt a sharp pain shoot
Through all my frame, go down to the heart's root.

THE WILLOW AND THE RED CLIFF
[_]

William Morris' first attempt at verse.

About the river goes the wind
And moans through the sad grey willow,
And calls up sadly to my mind
The heave and the swell of the billow.

For the sea heaves up beneath the moon,
And the river runs down to it:
It will meet the sea by the red cliff soon,
Salt water running through it.

xxxj

That cliff it rises steep from the sea
On its top a thorn-tree stands,
With its branches blown away from the sea,
As if praying with outstretched hands,

To be saved from the wind, from the merciless west
That moaneth through it always
And very seldom giveth it rest
When the dark is falling pallwise.

One day when the wind moaned through that tree
As it moans now through the willow
On the cliff sat a woman clasping her knee
O'er the rise and fall of the billow.

And as she sits there without a moan
With her hand clasped round her knee,
The shadows go over her sitting alone,
And the shadows go over the sea,

And the clouds go over the face of the moon
That looketh down on the sea:
They will close around her very soon,
That you cannot tell where she be.

And the woman sits with her head bent down,
And thinketh of happy days;
Of the days when in the bright summer sun
She lifted her fair, fair face.

And the woman thought, sitting over the sea,
Of a glorious summer eve,
How—under the boughs of the willow tree—
Ah! no tears fall for her grief.

The dark clouds now have closed over the moon,
That you cannot tell where she be:
And, from the face of the bright moon thrown,
Not a shadow goes over the sea.

xxxij

And the woman sat while the night went on,
And she never unclasped her hands:
And the woman sat till the clouds were gone,
And the sun rose over the lands.

Then she sang in the light of the rising sun,
While the waves looked green and white:
She sang in the sunlight this mournful song,
While the red cliff turned from the light.

“Sun that lookest straight at me
As I turn me from the sea,
Dost thou know my misery?
Dost thou know the willow tree
Underneath whose branches he
Plighted well his troth to me?
O! the happy willow tree
With the river by it sighing,
And the swallow by it flying,
And the thrush singing to it from the thorn-bush.
O! the happy willow tree,
For the river sigheth for it,
And the swallow flyeth to it,
And the thrush sings of love from the thorn-bush.
In the spring the thrush singeth,
From the bough the leaf springeth,
To hear him sing of love from the thorn-bush.
In the summer he is still;
From the river to the hill
No song of bird cometh to the thorn-bush.
But the happy willow tree
He is full as full can be
Of the song of love that rang out from the thorn-bush.
When the autumn cometh round,
All the air is filled with sound
That cometh from the sick yellow thorn-bush.
And the willow branches wave

xxxiij

O'er the fallen leaves that pave
The dull earth all about the thorn-bush.
And the autumn passeth by,
And the dead leaves round it lie:
Red berries look out fairly from the thorn-bush.
And the willow swingeth heavily,
Thinking of the days gone by:
And he thinketh of the spring
And the song that shall outring
From the loving thrush a-sitting in the thorn-bush.”

Then the woman turned round to the sea,
Which swung its waves up heavily:
And she let her hair from its bands go free,
And the west wind blew it out wearily.

Then she turned round again to the sun,
And her hair was blown back on her:
And to close the sun in the clouds had begun:
Then the bitter song sprang from her.

“O! willow tree, O! willow tree,
Keepst thou the ring he gave to me
And which I on thy branches hung,
When all about the song-thrush sung?

O! willow-tree, O! willow-tree,
Wilt thou keep all my misery?
Wilt hide it in the hollow dark,
Where the wave has sapped thy bark?
Shall the song-thrush know it?
The forget-me-not show it
To the river running by?

O fair earth, fair sky above it:
O fair autumn elms that love it;
Fair trees that fill the hollow there;
Yellow leaves that float in air;

xxxiv

See! his picture I have kept;
I have never o'er it wept.
How my hair floats round him now
How it blows against his brow.
I will give him to the sea,
The sea will keep him well for me
In his deep green waters.”

Then over the face of the cliff she leant,
With the picture in her hand,
And as she lay with her head down bent,
Her long hair was blown on the land.

She stretched her hand adown the side
As far as her arm would reach:
And from her hand did the picture glide,
Waves caught it on the beach.

And still she lay with her head down bent,
And her hand stretched down to the sea,
And she said, as the sea wind over her went:
O! love dost call for me?
“O! love I will come to thee:
O! love we will dwell in the sea,
And in the pearl-strewn cave
Will gently move the billow
As once above us did wave
The green boughs of the willow.”

The clouds are over the face of the sun,
There is no wind below them:
But above the west-wind presses them on,
Nor ever rest will give them.

No living thing on the cliff does stand:
No face from the red cliff looks:
But the thorn-bush stretches out his hand
To the leaves in the little nooks.

And from the thorn-bush far away
Doth the thrush to the willow sing:

xxxv

And on the willow branch alway
Glitters a golden ring.

[POEM BY THE WAY.]

[_]

This ballad was written in January 1896.

SHE

The blossom's white upon the thorn,
The lily's on the lea,
The beaded dew is bright tomorn;
Come forth and o'er to me.

And when thou farest from the ford
My hand thine hand shall take;
For this young day about my board
Men sing the feast awake.

And I am lady of the land,
My hall is wide and side,
And therein would I have thee stand
Midst the blooming of my pride.

Since oft a-days forth wandered we
O'er mead and dale and down,
Till on the edges of the sea
Aloof we saw the town.

Since oft a-days we turned and went
And left the wind-worn shore
And there below the sheep-fed bent
Stood by the little door.

'Twas oft from glooming of the lea
Into the house we turned,
And I by thee, and thou by me
Watched how the oak-log burned.

Wherefore while yet the day is young,
And the feast awake with morn,

xxxvj

Come o'er and hear my praises sung
And the day when I was born.

Tomorn I will not cross the ford
And take thee by thine hand,
And see the feast upon thy board
And midst the prideful stand.

Gem-strewn thine hands are that of old
All naked-fair I knew;
And covered are thy feet with gold,
That brush the beaded dew.

And though thine hall be wide and side,
No room is there for me;
For there be men of mickle pride
Betwixt thy face and me.

An earl upon thy right hand is,
A baron takes thy sleeve,
A belted knight thine hand doth kiss,
And asketh little leave.

I will depart and take my way
O'er mead and down and dale,
And come thereto where on a day
We saw the upland fail.

Then will I get me to the town
And ship me o'er the main,
And clean forget both dale and down
And the ways we went, we twain.

The whiles thy maidens round thee throng
To lay thee soft abed,
And thou lay'st down my loss and wrong
On the pillows of thine head.

One foot upon the deck shall be
One hand upon the rope,
And the Hale and How on the weltering sea
And one farewell to hope.

University of Virginia Library

INTRODUCTION

[Fragments of verse extracted from the Introduction and not printed elsewhere.]

[MAN BORN TO BE KING.]

[Lines from an earlier draft.]

[THE LADY OF THE WASTED LAND.]

[Fragment from quarto note-book.]

[A TALE OF PLANTAGENETS.]

[Fragment from quarto note-book.]

[FRAGMENT FROM QUARTO NOTE-BOOK.]

THE WILLOW AND THE RED CLIFF [_] William Morris' first attempt at verse.

[POEM BY THE WAY.]

THE WILLOW AND THE RED CLIFF
[_]

William Morris' first attempt at verse.