The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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| II. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
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| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XXI. |
| XXIV. |
 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
O love, how the dying year
Love amid its death doth bear—
Death, for though the younglings play
On the green patch by the way,
Though the blue-clad maidens sing
O'er the end of vintaging;
Though to them no pain is love
But a dear joy that shall move
Heaven and earth to do their will;
Yet hangs death above us still,
And no hope of further gain,
But foreboding of a pain
But the dread of surefoot fate
Makes thine eyes so passionate
Makes thy hands so fain to cling.
Love amid its death doth bear—
Death, for though the younglings play
On the green patch by the way,
Though the blue-clad maidens sing
O'er the end of vintaging;
Though to them no pain is love
But a dear joy that shall move
Heaven and earth to do their will;
Yet hangs death above us still,
And no hope of further gain,
But foreboding of a pain
But the dread of surefoot fate
Makes thine eyes so passionate
Makes thy hands so fain to cling.
Hearken, sweet love, how they sing,
And their song is prayer and praise
To the givers of good days,
Though we twain sit all alone
Thinking how that all things won
Are as nought and nought and nought
To the joy our fresh love bought
When all fear of change was dead.
And their song is prayer and praise
To the givers of good days,
Though we twain sit all alone
Thinking how that all things won
Are as nought and nought and nought
276
When all fear of change was dead.
O my love, turn not thine head,
For they laugh amid their song,
And they deem themselves so strong,
That if ever they shall cry
From the midst of misery
There is that shall help their need.
For they laugh amid their song,
And they deem themselves so strong,
That if ever they shall cry
From the midst of misery
There is that shall help their need.
O my love, look not, nor heed
For they deem themselves divine,
And shall curse those eyes of thine
Where death gathers now, and grows
Thy passion to its fainting close.
For they deem themselves divine,
And shall curse those eyes of thine
Where death gathers now, and grows
Thy passion to its fainting close.
On me, look awhile on me!
And if nought thine eyes can see,
And if nought thy breast can feel
For the sickness that doth steal
O'er desire that was thine heart,
Yet not all alone thou art,
For my lips and hands are nigh,
And I fail and faint and die
As thou diest, O my sweet.
Our souls meet and our loves meet,
And at last we know for sure
What shall change and what endure.
And if nought thine eyes can see,
And if nought thy breast can feel
For the sickness that doth steal
O'er desire that was thine heart,
Yet not all alone thou art,
For my lips and hands are nigh,
And I fail and faint and die
As thou diest, O my sweet.
Our souls meet and our loves meet,
And at last we know for sure
What shall change and what endure.
O my love look down and see
What they deem felicity!
Look down on the autumn earth
And their terror-girded mirth;
Speak with words that have no name
All thy love and pity and shame!
What they deem felicity!
Look down on the autumn earth
And their terror-girded mirth;
Speak with words that have no name
All thy love and pity and shame!
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |