The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XXI. |
 | XXIV. |
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 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
125
Strange felt the Wanderers at his tale, for now
Their old desires it seemed once more to show
Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest
Most surely coming, of all things seemed best:
—Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain
Some space to try such deeds as now in vain
They heard of amidst stories of the past;
Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast
From out their hands—they sighed to think of it,
And how as deedless men they there must sit.
Their old desires it seemed once more to show
Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest
Most surely coming, of all things seemed best:
—Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain
Some space to try such deeds as now in vain
They heard of amidst stories of the past;
Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast
From out their hands—they sighed to think of it,
And how as deedless men they there must sit.
Yet, with the measured falling of that rhyme
Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time
Whereby, in spite of hope long past away,
In spite of knowledge growing day by day
Of lives so wasted, in despite of death,
With sweet content that eve they drew their breath,
And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more
Than that dead Queen's beside Bœbeis' shore;
Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both,
Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth
Perchance, to have them told another way.
So passed the sun from that fair summer day.
Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time
Whereby, in spite of hope long past away,
In spite of knowledge growing day by day
Of lives so wasted, in despite of death,
With sweet content that eve they drew their breath,
And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more
Than that dead Queen's beside Bœbeis' shore;
Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both,
Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth
Perchance, to have them told another way.
So passed the sun from that fair summer day.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |