The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
 | X. |
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| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XIV. |
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| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XXI. |
| XXIV. |
 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
Now as he sang he 'gan to wend more slow
Yea well nigh stopped, and seemed to hearken now
For footsteps following—no sound might he hear
But his own heart a-beating, and great fear
Stung sudden to the quick, and forth he sprang
And from his random-smitten harp there rang
A loud discordant noise: swift he passed on
A long while silent, till upon him won
A dreadful helpless sense of loneliness
That with all fear his spirit did oppress;
And at the last he cried: “Eurydice
O hearken if thou art anigh to me!
Hearken lest I faint and fear thou too
Shouldst faint and fear, and all be left to do
Once more—O hearken sweet—this is a dream
And all our sorrow now doth only seem
And thou art mine and I am thine: we lie,
We twain, at home so soft and quietly
In the moon-litten bed amid the sound
Of leaves light-rustling, and my arms are wound
About thy body, but thy hands fall down
Away from me, O sweet, mine own, mine own!
Doubtful e'en now with thy last waking shame.”
Yea well nigh stopped, and seemed to hearken now
For footsteps following—no sound might he hear
But his own heart a-beating, and great fear
Stung sudden to the quick, and forth he sprang
And from his random-smitten harp there rang
A loud discordant noise: swift he passed on
A long while silent, till upon him won
A dreadful helpless sense of loneliness
That with all fear his spirit did oppress;
And at the last he cried: “Eurydice
O hearken if thou art anigh to me!
Hearken lest I faint and fear thou too
Shouldst faint and fear, and all be left to do
Once more—O hearken sweet—this is a dream
And all our sorrow now doth only seem
And thou art mine and I am thine: we lie,
We twain, at home so soft and quietly
In the moon-litten bed amid the sound
Of leaves light-rustling, and my arms are wound
About thy body, but thy hands fall down
273
Doubtful e'en now with thy last waking shame.”
Therewith from lips and harp the sweet song came.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |