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

Down in the south Laconian country-side
About mount Tenarus, a wood spreads wide
And toward the heart of it holm-oak and yew
Make it right hard for light to struggle through,
Make twilight in the noonday. Ere ye reach
This darkest place, the crisp leaves of the beech
Make a sweet ceiling overhead; the oak
And many-keyed ash good for shaft and yoke
Grow sparser next above the thin hard grass;
Then through a clear space doth a swift stream pass
A rod from whose bank the black wood uprears
Its mighty mass of dread: in long passed years
So was it at the least, as tells my tale;
And in those days no quarry might avail
To draw the hunter to the further shore
Of that small stream, though, folk said, golden ore
Rolled from the hills thick on its shallows lay
To wait, belike, the coming of the day
When Pan should die and all the Gods should leave
The world all changed, as folk did then believe
Should one day come to pass. All men did dread
That wood exceeding much, and deemed the dead

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Walked there at whiles; and that the Gods who least
Love mortal men, whose dreadful altar-feast
Needeth men's blood, at whiles would haunt the place.

Yet one there was in such a fearful case
That hope from fear she never more might tell
Who e'en amidst the very place did dwell
And with the dead held converse; nor might men
Number the years this fearful one bore then;
Or know if she would die, for ever she,
As tells the tale, in all folk's memory
Had been the same to look on: so it was
That sometimes would her awful shadow pass
Long in the sunset, long in the low moon
Over the hay-field, and the maidens' tune
Would quaver and die out, and hand from hand
Would fall away, and youth and damsel stand
Trembling and scarcely daring to draw breath,
As love grew faint before the coming death.
Yet since strange tales went of her wondrous lore,
Sometimes would folk that hard need pressed full sore,
Cry from the stream's bank on her dreadful name,
They durst not name else; and the hag still came
At the seventh call, and, for such homely hire
As woollen cloth, or knife fresh from the fire,
Wheat-meal, or kid fit for the slaughtering,
Fresh oil or honey, or such like other thing,
Would speak in dreadful voice that scarcely seemed
To come from her, and of ill dreams thrice dreamed
Would tell the import; or teach fearful skill,
How to gain love perforce, and how to kill
Far-off unseen—in battle to prevail,
To heal the half-dead and make weak the hale.

That wood and she who dwelt therein did curse
The country-side, I deem: more wild and fierce,
More cruel and hard in love, more fell in hate

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Were those than other folk, content to wait
With blind eyes in this changing doubtful home
The bitter and the sweet that were to come.

With none of these our story dealeth now
But with a stranger who went to and fro
Amid the dwellings that stood round about
The wood, and hearkened tales of dark and doubt
Men told thereof, silent himself, distraught
Amid the wondering men with bitter thought
With grief untold to these, which yet our tale
Shall tell of somewhat. In a Thracian vale,
He dwelt erewhile, and Orpheus had to name,
And from a proud and mighty race he came
Of which few words folk tell, but know that he
Could deal with measured words and melody
As no man else, and all the people moved,
And in all matters was right well beloved.
Now this man wooed the maid Eurydice
And won her, and the days wore by till she
Was wedded to him, but or ere the night
When all their longing into pure delight
Should melt away, as her fair feet did pass
Over the sweetest of the garden grass
And he beheld them, unbeheld there crept
A serpent through the flowers o'er which she stepped
And stung her unshod foot in deadly wise
So that before the July moon might rise
To gleam upon the rose-strewn fragrant bed,
She, the desire of all the world, lay dead.

Ye who shall read what after followeth
May deem belike how this man first saw death;
Who none the less at last arose from pain
So great, that from its heart he needs must gain
Some little hope, if he should yet live on,
And so this grew until at last he won

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A bitter courage from his lone despair,
That scarcely would believe in death, or bear
The burden of the changeless Gods while love
Was yet alive the very death to move,
What lore he gained, or in what hidden place.
But so it was that still he set his face
Toward Tenarus, until at last outworn
With grief and watching, on a bitter morn
Upon the borders of that stream he stood
With strained eyes fixed upon the fearful wood.

Black was his raiment, and a withered wreath
Of flowers that once had felt the summer's breath
Was round his head; an ivory harp, well strung
With golden strings, about his neck there hung:
Lovely he was, well-wrought of every limb;
But white and wasted was the face of him
Beneath his golden hair, a thing to move
The best of Goddesses to ruth and love,
If she might dream a little while that fate,
Stayed by the hand of love, an hour could wait
To let her taste the fear and hope and pain,
That still we strive to think not wholly vain.

Midwinter was it, dark the full stream ran
Betwixt two shelves of ice; the sun grew wan
Already, as the promise of the day
Was marred by the long cloud-bars dull and grey
That the light frosty wind drew from the north;
From the brown brake-side peered a grey wolf forth
And snarled behind him, e'en while overhead
A raven wheeled, glad that the year was dead
To make him rich. Then Orpheus seemed to wake
As from a dream, and looked around and spake:

“Long hast thou been a-dying, O bitter year,
Whose summer-tide such woe to me did bear!

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And dieth not time withal, though still I strive
A little, and a little hope doth live.
But I—I shall not die, I shall not die
E'en when this hope is utterly gone by,
But, living, unconsumed by misery still,
Into a timeless changeless sea of ill,
Made but to waste my wretched soul, shall float,
As from a dark stream's mouth an unmanned boat
Floats into a windless sea fulfilled of death.”

He clenched his hands, and drew a weary breath,
And o'er the grass that through the thin dry snow
Struggled aloft, he went with footsteps slow
Until he came to the stream's shallowest place,
Then with his sick hope quivering in his face,
Crashed through theice and splashed the ripple through
And gained the bank, and toward the dark wood drew,
That none in memory of aught alive
Had dared to seek, with death and hell to strive.
But he for nought that might abide him quailed,
E'en when the winter day's sick sunlight failed
Beneath the black boughs, and the twilight dim
Betwixt the tree-trunks needs must seem to him
Gained not from day, but from some strange place shed
Where day and night need not the changeless dead.
Nought living in that wood his eyes might see,
Scarce might the snow betwixt thick tree and tree
Reach the sparse herbage, or the hard brown ground:
Though the wind rose without now, no real sound
But of his hasty feet therein he heard;
Yet by the silence nowise was he feared,
For, wrapped about in grief and strong intent,
Scarcely he saw the way on which he went
Or took note of the trees, as one by one
From out the gloom his eyes were fixed upon
They grew, then met him, then were left behind.

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Thus darkling through the changeless wood ways blind
Long time he went, till suddenly a light,
Red, dusky, flickering, through the silent night
Of the moveless boughs sent a long wavering way,
Changing to black and red the tree-trunks grey.
No cry came from his lips, nor did his feet
Falter one whit, but swiftlier moved to meet
The heart of the strange light, until at last
Into a treeless open space he passed,
Though what was overhead he might not say,
Sky or what else; for surely the world's day
Had scarce waned yet, yea and were it night
With neither moon nor star the sky to light
Scarce had this wide-spread twilight glimmered there
To mingle with the red blaze that did flare
From out the windows of a house of stone,
White and unstained as is a wind-bleached bone
In a dry land. He looked down toward his feet
And might not name the flowers that they did meet,
Though blossoms certainly that glare did light
Not the thin grey grass and snow dusty-white
Of the cold world without; whereby he knew
That some strange land he thus had journeyed to,
But felt no fear, nay rather hope, that strange
Should all be round him; and the changeless change
Of seasons, each slaying each, and night and day
Waxing and waning thus were passed away.

So now unto the doorway of that hall
Swiftly he passed, and as his feet did fall
Upon its threshold, wild new hopes there came
Across his heart. He entered; a great flame
Shot up from floor to ceiling of that place
Reddening his raiment and his wild white face
And lighting every nook and cranny there.
A mighty [hall] had he accounted fair
Mid the world's sunlight, with the boughs of trees

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Brushing its windows in the fitful breeze;
But here, mid utter silence of all else
Save the flame's roar, mid horror such as dwells
Amidst a city where all folk have died,
Dreadful it seemed, and even he did bide
Doubtful a little while, with eyes all dazed
As through the smokeless swirling flame he gazed;
All was of stone there, flawless-smooth, and white,
Pavement and walls and roof, but for the light
That reddened it: betwixt the fire and door
A laver was there sunken in the floor
Whose moveless water mirrored the straight flame;
A brazen bowl there floated in the same,
And by the pillar that rose up anigh,
A black-fleeced ram lay gasping piteously,
The red blood running from his breast apace.

Now sounded a shrill voice adown the place:
“Draw nigher, Orpheus, tell thy tale to me
Of the glad world unmeet for me and thee
That hast a mind the heavens and earth to move:
Tales wherein hope is told of, and sweet love,
Where each loves each in sweet and equal wise
Beneath the just Gods' happy unseen eyes.”

Then such a laughter on his ears did fall
As made him deem that in that dreadful hall
His sin and his despair did him abide,
A thing made manifest, that ere that tide
Dimly he knew, a dream: and yet his feet
Now drew him on the worst of all to meet.
But as betwixt the pillars tall he passed
Lo, nor their whiteness, nor his blackness cast
A shadow on the pavement, in despite
Of that great swirling shaft of ruddy light.
But now all fear that his great heart drew round
At the first hearing of that dreadful sound

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Died clean away as onward he did wend
And saw one sitting at the hall's far end
On a great seat of stone, a woman, clad
In white wool raiment: in her hand she had
A rock wherefrom she span a coal-black thread;
Her face was as the face of one long dead
But for her glittering eyes, and white and long
Hung down her hair her raiment's folds among.

“All hail, World's Hope, World's Love!” she cried, “we twain
Of such a meeting long have been most fain:
Yea, though thou knowest me not, yet oft indeed
Thou calledst on me in thy bitter need,
To make thy face as brass, thine heart as stone—
O good it is we twain are met alone!”

Now as he drew close, therewithal it seemed
As though this too with all these things were dreamed,
And had no import: as he stood there, still
One thought, one hope his wasted heart did fill,
That in such wise from out his soul did flame
That o'er his cheeks a ruddy flush there came
Mocked from her corpse-like lips by laughter low
As if his thoughts she nowise failed to know.
Then with a proud and steady gaze he cried:
“Mother, all hail! for though the world be wide,
Thus have we met; I who desire, and thou
Who hidden things and life's end well can show!”

“Mother of nought at all,” she cried, “am I;
The love and hope that I saw wane and die,
I brought it not to birth, but in a dream
Was it made mine: the thought that once did seem
Born from my very heart—who knows, who knows,
Whence it was born, amid what fearful throes
Of Gods, to mock me as alone I sit,
Mazed twixt the rising and the end of it.

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Fool of the world, thou hearkenest not to me,
Deeming thy love a part of thee to be,
Knowing it mighty, thinking that thou too
Art grown a God all marvellous things to do—
Assay it, O thou singer, who didst move
The little hearts of men ere thou didst love,
And canst not move them more, O hot-heart fool,
Who then as now wert but the helpless tool
Of that undying worldwide melody
Whose sweet sound mocks the vain hearts made to die.
—Thou hearkenest not—how then shall I avail
Thy vain desire? Speak, tell me of thy tale!”

Indeed with wandering eyes he turned to her,
As though no meaning all her words did bear,
But when she made an end of all, he said:
“Mother, folk say thou dealest with the dead,
Thyself alive—as old as thou mayst be,
As wise by lapse of years of misery,
I, young, unwise, methinks might look upon
The eyes of those that their last rest have won
As thou thyself dost, nor more lonely grow
E'en for that sight; because within me now
Instead of lore and wisdom is there set
Desire too strong to dally with regret,
To deal with dreamy bitter-sweet half-rest,
To strive for that which wise men call the best,
Forgetfulness and blotting out of day;
Too strong but as a thinnest mask to bear
Sick-hearted patience through the days to wear.
Nay I need pray thee not, I know thy thought
As thou know'st mine; I am not come for nought,
Alone of all men, to this fearful place.”

Silent awhile upon him did she gaze,
Then cried: “Nay nay, thou com'st not here to strive
Save with the Gods who kill and make alive

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And know not why—so even let it be,
And as I may will I give help to thee;
I who perchance am even one of these
And shall not die to gain a little ease.
—Yet hearken now, thou as thou standest there,
So loving and so lovesome and so fair,
All music on thy lips, and in thine heart—
More than a God in this one thing thou art,
And if love ruled the world thou too shouldst rule.
But so it is not; love is but the tool
They use to make the morning bright and fair.
Even by the silence of thy dull despair
The brown breast of the thoughtless nightingale
Is filled with longings vague to tell thy tale:
Through the cold patience of thy grief forgot,
A hundred thousand springs wax bright and hot,
A hundred thousand summers bear the rose;
And with the fruitful rest thine heart did lose
A hundred thousand autumns grow o'ersweet
Before the star-crowned winter's cold white feet;
While thou thyself, a waif cast forth, shalt fare
Alone, unloved, thou knowest not why or where.
Come then today and strive and strive and fail,
Beat down and conquered—yet of more avail,
Sweeter and fairer to the world than though
In triumph thou thy short life passedst through,
Glad every day and making others glad.”

Methinks he knew not, or for good or bad,
The words she spake to him, but in his eyes
Gleamed a strange light, as he beheld her rise
And step down toward him; as a king's eyes gleam
When from the hall forth unto battle stream
His folk foredoomed behind him, and the shout
Of foes unnumbered ringeth round about.

But now on his hot hand her hand did fall
Ice-cold, and slow she led him down the hall

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Until they came unto the laver fair,
And there she bade him bide, and into the air
Departed, but returning presently
Bare store of herbs with her all strange to see,
With some whereof her dreadful hair she crowned,
And some she strewed about upon the ground,
Or cast into the water: then she took
The ram now dead, and from her long arms shook
The cumbering raiment back, and therewith strode
Unto the fire and cast therein her load,
That flesh and fell and bone the fire licked up;
Then from her girdle did she take a cup,
And filled it from that water, and then spake:
“Drink and fear not; thine heart that so doth ache
Shall rest a while. Lie down hereby, and sleep
Over the trouble of thy soul shall creep
Despite thyself. But when thou wak'st, take thou
Thine harp, if aught there be within thee now
Of melody; and in the sweetest wise
Thou mayest, sing thou of thy miseries:
For doubt thou not, that those shall be anear
Who all thy tale shall nowise fail to hear
Howso they mock thee afterward. Farewell,
What end soe'er of this thou hast to tell,
Belike it is that ne'er shall meet again
Thine all-devouring feverish longing vain
And my despair that the Gods needs must call
Patience and silence, the great help of all.”

He drank, and almost ere her speech was o'er
Sank with dim eyes upon the marble floor,
Then twice he feebly raised his eyes to see
If she were gone, and twice sank languidly
Again; and yet again somewhat he strove
To look forth, but now scarcely might he move,
For heavy sleep was on him 'gainst his will,
And a void space; then dreams of the fair hill

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That hung in Thrace above his father's house,
Beset with youths and maidens amorous,
That waited there his coming forth to them
With harp and fair song, that the wool robe's hem
Might dance about the maiden's dancing feet,
And her loosed hair smite with its tangles sweet
The youth's flushed trembling face drawn close anigh.
But from the house he deemed there came a cry
“Orpheus is dead, and will not come again.”
And therewithal he seemed to strive in vain
To add a cry unto the wailing loud
That burst out straightway from the lovesome crowd;
But as he strove all sight passed clean away,
And no more had he thought of night or day,
Or lapse of time, nay scarce if he did live;
But none the less ever his mouth did strive
With that dumb wail and made no sound at all;
Until at last the pillars of the hall
Midst a dim twilight did he now behold
Grow slowly from the dark void; quenched and cold
The fire was; great drops fell from on high
Into the laver, and a strange wild cry
Rang through the lone place—O Eurydice
My love, my love!—yet he knew not that he
Had ever cried: but as he slowly rose
Unto his feet and drew the raiment close
Unto his shivering body, and his heart
Strove to gain memory, his white lips did part,
And as the dead may call unto the dead
With listless hands down-dropped, and hopeless head,
He cried: “O love, O love Eurydice!”
And through the hall his voice rang mournfully,
And died away, nor other sound was there
Except the drip into the water near,
And his own breathing. So at last he moved
And his foot smote against his harp beloved,
And from its strings there came a jarring sound

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Familiar once, but mid the marvels round,
In that last refuge of his hope and woe
A stranger sound than e'er he hearkened to.
Therewith he 'gan remember where he was
And all that hitherto had come to pass,
And of the bidding of the dreadful crone.
Then with the pain of feeling so alone,
None nigh to tell of all his longing sore,
His heart grew soft, and his vexed eyes ran o'er
With bitter unseen tears; and midst of these
Came thronging thick and fast the images
Of bygone days; he stooped adown to take
His harp up, and he felt the strained strings quake,
Trembling himself; then with a doubtful hand
Laid on the harp, a while there did he stand
Nor named his hope; until at last the hall
Heard his deft fingers on the red gold fall
And move in loving wise: though he belike
Scarce knew what music therefrom he did strike,
Scarce knew what words from his parched lips came forth.
For all these things to him were grown nought worth:
Only his love lived, only his longing strove
To think the whole world filled with his sweet love.

Long ago has he gone, nor left behind
One word of his to loose love, or to bind,
Yet tells the tale his thought in words like these,
Faint as they be to match his melodies.