The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIV. |
 | XV. |
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| III. |
| VI. |
| IX. |
| XV. |
| XX. |
| XXIX. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XLI. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVIII. |
| LI. |
| LV. |
| LVIII. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XXI. |
| XXIV. |
 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
While agone my words had wings
And might tell of noble things,
The wide warring of the kings,
And the going to and fro
Of the wise that the world do know.
And might tell of noble things,
The wide warring of the kings,
And the going to and fro
Of the wise that the world do know.
252
Then the sea was in my song,
And the wind blew rough and strong,
And the swift steeds swept along
And the griding of the spears
Reached the hot heart through the ears.
And the wind blew rough and strong,
And the swift steeds swept along
And the griding of the spears
Reached the hot heart through the ears.
So a slim youth sang I then
Mid the beards of warring men;
Till the great hall rang again,
And the swords were on their knees
As they hearkened words like these.
Mid the beards of warring men;
Till the great hall rang again,
And the swords were on their knees
As they hearkened words like these.
Or before the maids that led
The white oxen, sleek, full fed,
When the field gave up its dead,
The dead lover of the sun,
Sweet sang I when day was done.
The white oxen, sleek, full fed,
When the field gave up its dead,
The dead lover of the sun,
Sweet sang I when day was done.
Hearts I gladdened, limbs made light,
When the feet of girls gleamed white
In the odorous torch-lit night,
And belike my heart did flame
Though my cheek told lies of shame.
When the feet of girls gleamed white
In the odorous torch-lit night,
And belike my heart did flame
Though my cheek told lies of shame.
Or in days not long agone,
Would I sit as if alone
Though around stood many a one,
Each as if alone we were
For of fresh love sang I there.
Would I sit as if alone
Though around stood many a one,
Each as if alone we were
For of fresh love sang I there.
All such things could I sing now,
And to this dull silence show
How the life of man doth grow;
Of all love and hope and hate
And unseen slow-creeping fate.
And to this dull silence show
How the life of man doth grow;
Of all love and hope and hate
And unseen slow-creeping fate.
253
But of this how shall I sing?
The sick hope whereto I cling,
The despair that everything
Moaneth with about mine eyes,
This dull cage of miseries?
The sick hope whereto I cling,
The despair that everything
Moaneth with about mine eyes,
This dull cage of miseries?
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |