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The Collected Works of William Morris

With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris
Morris, William (1834-1896)

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VOLUME I THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS
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VOLUME II THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON
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VOLUME III, IV, V, VI THE EARTHLY PARADISE
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VOLUME VII THE STORY OF GRETTIR THE STRONG. THE STORY OF THE VOLSUNGS AND NIBLUNGS
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VOLUME IX LOVE IS ENOUGH. POEMS BY THE WAY
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VOLUME X THREE NORTHERN LOVE STORIES. THE TALE OF BEOWULF
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VOLUME XII THE STORY OF SIGURD THE VOLSUNG AND THE FALL OF THE NIBLUNGS
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VOLUME XIV THE HOUSE OF THE WOLFINGS. THE STORY OF THE GLITTERING PLAIN
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VOLUME XV THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAINS
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VOLUME XVI NEWS FROM NOWHERE. A DREAM OF JOHN BALL. A KING'S LESSON
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VOLUME XVII THE WOOD BEYOND THE WORLD. CHILD CHRISTOPHER. OLD FRENCH ROMANCES
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VOLUME XXI THE SUNDERING FLOOD. UNFINISHED ROMANCES
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INTRODUCTION
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THE SUNDERING FLOOD
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CHAPTER III. WOLVES HARRY THE FLOCK.
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CHAPTER V. OSBERNE SLAYS THE WOLVES.
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CHAPTER VI. THEY FARE TO THE CLOVEN MOTE.
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CHAPTER VII. OF A NEWCOMER, AND HIS GIFT TO OSBERNE.
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CHAPTER X. OSBERNE AND ELFHILD HOLD CONVERSE TOGETHER.
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CHAPTER XVII. THE SLAYING OF HARDCASTLE.
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CHAPTER XXIX. OSBERNE AND HIS MEN RETURN TO WETHERMEL.
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CHAPTER XXXVI. THE STAVES WHICH OSBERNE TAUGHT TO THE DALESMEN.
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CHAPTER XXXVII. OSBERNE TAKES LEAVE OF WETHERMEL.
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UNFINISHED ROMANCES
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VOLUME XXIV SCENES FROM THE FALL OF TROY AND OTHER POEMS AND FRAGMENTS

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O fair midspring, besung so oft and oft,
How can I praise thy loveliness enow?
Thy sun that burns not, and thy breezes soft
That o'er the blossoms of the orchard blow,
The thousand things that 'neath the young leaves grow,
The hopes and chances of the growing year,
Winter forgotten long, and summer near.
When Summer brings the lily and the rose,
She brings us fear; her very death she brings
Hid in her anxious heart, the forge of woes;
And, dull with fear, no more the mavis sings.
But thou! thou diest not, but thy fresh life clings
About the fainting autumn's sweet decay,
When in the earth the hopeful seed they lay.
Ah! life of all the year, why yet do I
Amid thy snowy blossoms' fragrant drift,
Still long for that which never draweth nigh,
Striving my pleasure from my pain to sift,
Some weight from off my fluttering mirth to lift?
Now, when far bells are ringing, “Come again,
Come back, past years! why will ye pass in vain?”
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