The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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| III, IV, V, VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XXI. |
 | XXIV. |
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 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
So wore the day until the sun was low
And Randver in his chamber sat alone
At last, and felt the scented west wind blow
From out the garden, hearkening to the moan
Of the low surf, and song of thrushes grown
O'er joyous with the coming of the dew,
And the late 'wildered bees that scantly flew
And Randver in his chamber sat alone
At last, and felt the scented west wind blow
From out the garden, hearkening to the moan
Of the low surf, and song of thrushes grown
O'er joyous with the coming of the dew,
And the late 'wildered bees that scantly flew
From lily-flower to lime tree: sitting so
And pondering, did one smite upon the door
And entering bowed before him, bid him know
That fain the Queen was ere the day was o'er
To show him 'twixt the palace and the shore
How fair the birds sang. So he went with him
Just as the sea sucked down the sun's last rim.
And pondering, did one smite upon the door
And entering bowed before him, bid him know
That fain the Queen was ere the day was o'er
To show him 'twixt the palace and the shore
How fair the birds sang. So he went with him
Just as the sea sucked down the sun's last rim.
A little time they went whenas they met,
Gudrun and he, alone between the trees
Not speaking much until a hand she set
Upon his shoulder and said: “Would the seas
Had been red flame to stay you, that some peace
I might have gained this latter end of life!
O me, O me, again beginneth strife!”
Gudrun and he, alone between the trees
Not speaking much until a hand she set
Upon his shoulder and said: “Would the seas
Had been red flame to stay you, that some peace
I might have gained this latter end of life!
O me, O me, again beginneth strife!”
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He shuddered and she said: “Thou knowest not,
For thou art young—art young—all hope thou hast,
I know thee that thy heart may well grow hot
With the sweet poison that for me is past
So long ago—poor man, thou shalt be cast
Into an endless sea of strife and ill
And good it were if I might save thee still.”
For thou art young—art young—all hope thou hast,
I know thee that thy heart may well grow hot
With the sweet poison that for me is past
So long ago—poor man, thou shalt be cast
Into an endless sea of strife and ill
And good it were if I might save thee still.”
“Lady,” he said, “I wot not of thy words
What they should mean! my life is scarce begun;
I think indeed to try me mid the swords
When this vain day of court-serving is done:
But then—what then? all life beneath the sun
Is full of risk and trouble, little ruth
Is due to me slain mid the swords forsooth.”
What they should mean! my life is scarce begun;
I think indeed to try me mid the swords
When this vain day of court-serving is done:
But then—what then? all life beneath the sun
Is full of risk and trouble, little ruth
Is due to me slain mid the swords forsooth.”
“Hearken,” she said, “thou seemest true and brave
Though thou mayst deem but raving that I say:
A wise man and a true nearby I have
Called Ulf the Red; at morn of this same day
His long-ship ready for fair cruising lay
Nor did he stop save this same feast to see:
Now him and his and life I give to thee.”
Though thou mayst deem but raving that I say:
A wise man and a true nearby I have
Called Ulf the Red; at morn of this same day
His long-ship ready for fair cruising lay
Nor did he stop save this same feast to see:
Now him and his and life I give to thee.”
He started: “Surely,” said he, “this I know
That thou wouldst have me straightway get me gone,
And in my mind a glimmering thought doth grow
That thou for some cause deemst me such an one
That I should cheat the man who sent his son
To win him bliss and honour—hastily
I speak, for haste within thy words doth lie.”
That thou wouldst have me straightway get me gone,
And in my mind a glimmering thought doth grow
That thou for some cause deemst me such an one
That I should cheat the man who sent his son
To win him bliss and honour—hastily
I speak, for haste within thy words doth lie.”
“O haste enow,” she said, “else might I tell
A many signs to thee whereby I deem
That most strong longing on thy spirit fell
Ere thou might'st know it, fostered by some dream
A wake or sleeping, or words that did seem
To hold up hope or pleasure to thine eyes—
How should I tell? but born in dreadful wise.”
A many signs to thee whereby I deem
That most strong longing on thy spirit fell
Ere thou might'st know it, fostered by some dream
A wake or sleeping, or words that did seem
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How should I tell? but born in dreadful wise.”
He said: “Tomorrow would I answer thee:
Fain would I commune with myself this night.”
“Nay, ere men sleep begins the misery—
O man, O man! when thou hast her in thy sight
How shalt thou bear to let that dear delight
Pass without thee adown life's dismal road?
How shalt thou bear the unhelped lonely load?”
Fain would I commune with myself this night.”
“Nay, ere men sleep begins the misery—
O man, O man! when thou hast her in thy sight
How shalt thou bear to let that dear delight
Pass without thee adown life's dismal road?
How shalt thou bear the unhelped lonely load?”
How sweet the eve was! twixt the garden trees
The new-risen moon showed now and sweeter scent
The lily cast forth neath the dewy breeze
And round their heads flittering the dusk bats went:
He hearkened and knew all her swift words meant,
But sweet and sweet and sweet they seemed to him,
No pain there seemed in them however dim.
The new-risen moon showed now and sweeter scent
The lily cast forth neath the dewy breeze
And round their heads flittering the dusk bats went:
He hearkened and knew all her swift words meant,
But sweet and sweet and sweet they seemed to him,
No pain there seemed in them however dim.
His heart beat quick as with some joy new gained,
As silent there he stood awhile, the night
Strode on apace and the light west wind waned
And she stood silent watching him, till bright
The house 'gan glow with new-lit light on light
And noise of much folk hurrying to the hall,
For well nigh ready was the festival.
As silent there he stood awhile, the night
Strode on apace and the light west wind waned
And she stood silent watching him, till bright
The house 'gan glow with new-lit light on light
And noise of much folk hurrying to the hall,
For well nigh ready was the festival.
Then spake she in a low hard voice: “Vain love—
The vain love of my life and vainer still
The life that nothing other folk may move!
O Gods that make alive that ye may kill,
And give that ye may take away, your will
In other worlds should needs work something good
Since here your chosen dwell mid tears and blood!
The vain love of my life and vainer still
The life that nothing other folk may move!
O Gods that make alive that ye may kill,
And give that ye may take away, your will
In other worlds should needs work something good
Since here your chosen dwell mid tears and blood!
“And now at last the image of old days
Drifts from me into mortal change and strife
Where this man seeing but flower-tangled ways
Pities not her nor me nor his own life,
And Sigurd has no memory of the wife—
Ah not his love, but she who dwelt with him
Ere yet the glory of the world waxed dim.
Drifts from me into mortal change and strife
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Pities not her nor me nor his own life,
And Sigurd has no memory of the wife—
Ah not his love, but she who dwelt with him
Ere yet the glory of the world waxed dim.
“Ah me how kind, how kind I might have been—
Had I been loved—” She sought his dreaming eyes
Amid the soft night's gathering dusk of green
Until strange passion in her breast 'gan rise
And on his breast she laid in eager wise
A trembling hand and cried: “Not all so ill
Thou choosest, son! short life with woe to fill
Had I been loved—” She sought his dreaming eyes
Amid the soft night's gathering dusk of green
Until strange passion in her breast 'gan rise
And on his breast she laid in eager wise
A trembling hand and cried: “Not all so ill
Thou choosest, son! short life with woe to fill
“And be beloved—and be beloved as I
Was never loved who yet for all good peace
I might, would cast no longing by
Nor change my misery for the world's increase
Of all good things!—O we at least with these
Will deal not waiting dully for the tide
When stripped and shivering death we must abide!”
Was never loved who yet for all good peace
I might, would cast no longing by
Nor change my misery for the world's increase
Of all good things!—O we at least with these
Will deal not waiting dully for the tide
When stripped and shivering death we must abide!”
Then from the palace out the trumpets blared,
And growing clamour came across the night,
And through the trees afar the torches flared
As seeking betwixt rose and lily white
The King's folk went. “Hearken,” she said, “delight
Awaiteth many a careless man this eve,
And thou—thou goest thither to receive
And growing clamour came across the night,
And through the trees afar the torches flared
As seeking betwixt rose and lily white
The King's folk went. “Hearken,” she said, “delight
Awaiteth many a careless man this eve,
And thou—thou goest thither to receive
“A strange new life that beareth death withal;
For doubt thou not thy wooing well hath sped,
And on thine offer King and lords did fall
As falls a starving man on new baked bread.
I hate thee not, yet would thou hadst been dead
A month agone! would that the Gothic land
Lay waste and kingless 'neath some conqueror's hand!
For doubt thou not thy wooing well hath sped,
And on thine offer King and lords did fall
As falls a starving man on new baked bread.
I hate thee not, yet would thou hadst been dead
A month agone! would that the Gothic land
Lay waste and kingless 'neath some conqueror's hand!
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“Ah me I rave, yet hearken once again:
That councillor that on thy right [hand] stood,
Either my ancient foresight is all vain
Or thou and I from him may hope no good—
I know the eyes and mouth that thirst for blood.”
Then as one wakened, toward her Randver turned,
And in his eyes a strange and new light burned.
That councillor that on thy right [hand] stood,
Either my ancient foresight is all vain
Or thou and I from him may hope no good—
I know the eyes and mouth that thirst for blood.”
Then as one wakened, toward her Randver turned,
And in his eyes a strange and new light burned.
He spake:“Thanks have thou, O great-hearted Queen,
For all thy words! Natheless thou wrongest me,
Whatever idle dreams in me have been,
If still thou deemest that on thine and thee
My hands shall lay the weight of misery.
For though thy Swanhild's loveliness should move
My dreamy fiery heart to utter love,
For all thy words! Natheless thou wrongest me,
Whatever idle dreams in me have been,
If still thou deemest that on thine and thee
My hands shall lay the weight of misery.
For though thy Swanhild's loveliness should move
My dreamy fiery heart to utter love,
“Yet fear me not, for I might live worse life
Than such a love about with me to bear
To make my hands the stronger in all strife,
And make my heart the freer from all fear
Since I should care nought for what most men care—
Perchance at last to fall asleep and find
That she at last was grown mine own and kind.
Than such a love about with me to bear
To make my hands the stronger in all strife,
And make my heart the freer from all fear
Since I should care nought for what most men care—
Perchance at last to fall asleep and find
That she at last was grown mine own and kind.
“Be merrier, Queen, for where she goeth indeed
May I not serve her as a very friend
Where not unlike it is that she shall need
True heart to help her ere her life-days end,
So that we twain unto death's door may wend
With hands not touching aught, heart free from heart,
Yet scarcely lonely though so nigh apart.”
May I not serve her as a very friend
Where not unlike it is that she shall need
True heart to help her ere her life-days end,
So that we twain unto death's door may wend
With hands not touching aught, heart free from heart,
Yet scarcely lonely though so nigh apart.”
She answered not save only with a sigh,
And in the dusk eve did he deem withal
He saw her smile; but those drew anigh
Who bore the torches, and the flowers did fall
Brushed by the stiff gold robes as toward the hall
They passed together, talking of such things
As well befit the lives of Queens and Kings.
And in the dusk eve did he deem withal
He saw her smile; but those drew anigh
Who bore the torches, and the flowers did fall
Brushed by the stiff gold robes as toward the hall
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As well befit the lives of Queens and Kings.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |