The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
 | I. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
|
|
| II. |
|
|
|
|
| III. |
|
|
|
|
| IV. |
|
|
|
| VII. |
|
|
|
|
| III. |
| IV. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
|
| XIV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XL. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| LII. |
| LIV. |
| LVII. |
| LIX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXVI. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXVI. |
| XC. |
|
| VIII. |
| XIV. |
| XVII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXIII. |
| XLIII. |
|
| IX. |
|
|
|
| X. |
|
|
| I. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| XI. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
|
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XIV. |
|
| V. |
|
| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XVII. |
| XXX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
|
| IV. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XII. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| XIV. |
|
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| XI. |
| XIII. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXII. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
|
| VII. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XXI. |
| XV. |
|
| III. |
| VI. |
| IX. |
| XV. |
| XX. |
| XXIX. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XLI. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVIII. |
| LI. |
| LV. |
| LVIII. |
| XVI. |
|
| II. |
| VIII. |
| XVII. |
|
| XXI. |
|
|
| III. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| X. |
| XVII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
|
|
|
| XXIV. |
|
|
|
|
|
WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE
EARTHLY PARADISE, DEC. 25, 1870 |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
343
WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE EARTHLY PARADISE, DEC. 25, 1870
So many stories written here
And none among them but doth bear
Its weight of trouble and of woe!
Well may you ask why it is so;
For surely neither sour nor dull
In such a world, of fair things full,
Should folk be.
And none among them but doth bear
Its weight of trouble and of woe!
Well may you ask why it is so;
For surely neither sour nor dull
In such a world, of fair things full,
Should folk be.
Ah, my dears, indeed
My wisdom fails me at my need
To tell why tales that move the earth
Are seldom of content and mirth.
Yet think if it may come of this—
That lives fulfilled of ease and bliss
Crave not for aught that we can give,
And scorn the broken lives we live;
Unlike to us they pass us by,
A dying laugh their history.
But those that struggled sore, and failed
Had one thing left them, that availed
When all things else were nought—
My wisdom fails me at my need
To tell why tales that move the earth
Are seldom of content and mirth.
Yet think if it may come of this—
That lives fulfilled of ease and bliss
Crave not for aught that we can give,
And scorn the broken lives we live;
Unlike to us they pass us by,
A dying laugh their history.
But those that struggled sore, and failed
Had one thing left them, that availed
When all things else were nought—
E'en Love—
Whose sweet voice, crying as they strove,
Begat sweet pity, and more love still,
Waste places with sweet tales to fill;
Whereby we, living here, may learn
Our eyes toward very Love to turn,
And all the pain it bringeth meet
As nothing strange amid the sweet:
Whereby we too may hope to be
Grains in the great world's memory
Of pain endured, and nobleness
That life ill-understood doth bless.
Words over-grave and sad for you
Maybe: but rime will still be true
Unto my heart—most true herein
In wishing, dear hearts, you may win
A life of every ill so clear,
That little tale for folk to hear
It may be: yet so full of love,
That e'en these words your hearts may move,
Years and years hence, when unto me
Life is a waste and windless Sea.
Whose sweet voice, crying as they strove,
Begat sweet pity, and more love still,
Waste places with sweet tales to fill;
Whereby we, living here, may learn
Our eyes toward very Love to turn,
And all the pain it bringeth meet
As nothing strange amid the sweet:
Whereby we too may hope to be
Grains in the great world's memory
Of pain endured, and nobleness
That life ill-understood doth bless.
344
Maybe: but rime will still be true
Unto my heart—most true herein
In wishing, dear hearts, you may win
A life of every ill so clear,
That little tale for folk to hear
It may be: yet so full of love,
That e'en these words your hearts may move,
Years and years hence, when unto me
Life is a waste and windless Sea.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |