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

He ceased and listened, for he deemed a sound
Unnameable stirred the still air around,
But knew not if from his own heart it was;
But into utter silence all did pass,
Whate'er it might be, in a while, and he
Stood in that place a moment silently,
Then passed unto the door, and gazed about
And the same glimmering twilight was without
As in the hall, and silence as of death,
So that the very drawing of his breath,
His feet just scarcely moving 'gainst his will,
Seemed a great sound, portentous, mid the still
Warm moveless air: till now he 'gan to think:
Yea, perchance death it was that I did drink
From the crone's cup, and this is but death's life
Silent and lonely, yet with memory rife,
With all the pain of the old struggle left,

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With all the love unsatisfied; hope reft
Away from us alone—Ah is it so
That in such wise with thee the hours do go,
And thou art lone, O love, as I am lone?
Yet if thy love for me is no more gone,
Than is my love, sure we shall meet again
To weep and smile above the tales of pain
That threatened, mocking, it would never cease.
Ah, if a word of mine might give thee peace,
Now or we meet, now while thou wanderest
Amid the languor of this dull unrest!

And once again his hands ran o'er the strings,
And once again with thought of long-past things
His heart swelled into music, and his song
Within that echoless land rang sweet and strong.