The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
274
He broke his song off therewithal; but vain
His hurrying feet seemed the sweet end to gain
Howso he hastened: in his ears there grew
Noises of things that for nought real he knew:
Noises of lands lonely of men, but full
Of uncouth things; the heavy sound and dull
Of earth cast unto earth, the swallowing sea
Changing to roaring fire presently;
Whining of strange beasts, driving of the rain
Against the lone hall's rattling window-pane;
Low moaning of the wind that was not there,
Swift wings of pigeons that the heavy air
Might never nourish: things known that did change
E'en in their midst to things unknown and strange,
Till his brain 'gan to reel, and soon he thought,
How if to dreamlike hearing there were brought
The sight of dreams? And even therewithal
It seemed to him a crowd his name did call
In moaning unison, that to shriek
Was growing, when the darkness seemed to break,
And once more through the shadowless strange day
Came thronging forth that crowd of sorrows grey,
Silent, slow-moving, staring all at him;
Thereat with sickened heart, and tottering limb,
He stayed and hid his eyes a while to cry:
“O if they mocked me not, and thou art nigh,
Help with thy love, thy patience, O my sweet,
To take these unseen fetters from my feet
And pierce this wall of dreams, that I may move.
O help me yet, dear spirit of my love,
Help me, Eurydice!”
His hurrying feet seemed the sweet end to gain
Howso he hastened: in his ears there grew
Noises of things that for nought real he knew:
Noises of lands lonely of men, but full
Of uncouth things; the heavy sound and dull
Of earth cast unto earth, the swallowing sea
Changing to roaring fire presently;
Whining of strange beasts, driving of the rain
Against the lone hall's rattling window-pane;
Low moaning of the wind that was not there,
Swift wings of pigeons that the heavy air
Might never nourish: things known that did change
E'en in their midst to things unknown and strange,
Till his brain 'gan to reel, and soon he thought,
How if to dreamlike hearing there were brought
The sight of dreams? And even therewithal
It seemed to him a crowd his name did call
In moaning unison, that to shriek
Was growing, when the darkness seemed to break,
And once more through the shadowless strange day
Came thronging forth that crowd of sorrows grey,
Silent, slow-moving, staring all at him;
Thereat with sickened heart, and tottering limb,
He stayed and hid his eyes a while to cry:
“O if they mocked me not, and thou art nigh,
Help with thy love, thy patience, O my sweet,
To take these unseen fetters from my feet
And pierce this wall of dreams, that I may move.
O help me yet, dear spirit of my love,
Help me, Eurydice!”
Sweet was the name
Upon his lips, and over him there came
A feeling as of rest: the tumult sank,
And when, with eyes from that wild dream that shrank,
He gazed again, empty the dim dusk was,
And onward once again he 'gan to pass.
Yet in a while, when nothing changed he saw
The wood, then terror 'gan again to draw
About him; he felt caged, prisoned there,
And scarce his love and longing now seemed fair,
And time was dead, and he left all alone
Wandering through space where nothing might be won
By will or strength or courage: yet withal
The old wont of song upon his heart did fall
And with the last shred left of hope did blend,
As wearily and slowly he did wend
On through the eyeless dusk, and once again
The harp-strings wailed in answer to his pain.
Upon his lips, and over him there came
A feeling as of rest: the tumult sank,
And when, with eyes from that wild dream that shrank,
He gazed again, empty the dim dusk was,
And onward once again he 'gan to pass.
275
The wood, then terror 'gan again to draw
About him; he felt caged, prisoned there,
And scarce his love and longing now seemed fair,
And time was dead, and he left all alone
Wandering through space where nothing might be won
By will or strength or courage: yet withal
The old wont of song upon his heart did fall
And with the last shred left of hope did blend,
As wearily and slowly he did wend
On through the eyeless dusk, and once again
The harp-strings wailed in answer to his pain.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |