The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
And then that clinging hand seemed worth
Whatever joy was left on earth,
And every trouble he forgot
And time and death remembered not:
Kinder she grew, she clung to him
With loving arms, her eyes did swim
With love and pity, as he strove
To show the wisdom of his love;
With trembling lips she praised his choice,
And said: “Ah, well mayst thou rejoice,
Well mayst thou think this one short night
Worth years of other men's delight,
If thy heart as mine own heart is,
Sunk in the boundless sea of bliss;
O love! rejoice with me! rejoice!”
Whatever joy was left on earth,
And every trouble he forgot
And time and death remembered not:
Kinder she grew, she clung to him
With loving arms, her eyes did swim
With love and pity, as he strove
To show the wisdom of his love;
With trembling lips she praised his choice,
And said: “Ah, well mayst thou rejoice,
Well mayst thou think this one short night
Worth years of other men's delight,
If thy heart as mine own heart is,
Sunk in the boundless sea of bliss;
O love! rejoice with me! rejoice!”
But as she spoke, her honied voice
Trembled, and midst of sobs she said:
“O love, and art thou still afraid?
Return then, to thine happiness,
Nor will I love thee any less;
But watch thee as a mother might
Her child at play.”
Trembled, and midst of sobs she said:
176
Return then, to thine happiness,
Nor will I love thee any less;
But watch thee as a mother might
Her child at play.”
With strange delight
He stammered out: “Nay, keep thy tears
For me, and for my ruined years
Weep, love, that I may love thee more,
My little hour will soon be o'er.”
He stammered out: “Nay, keep thy tears
For me, and for my ruined years
Weep, love, that I may love thee more,
My little hour will soon be o'er.”
“Ah, love,” she said, “and thou art wise
As men are, with long miseries
Buying these idle words and vain,
My foolish love, with lasting pain;
And yet, thou wouldst have died at last
If in all wisdom thou hadst passed
Thy weary life: forgive me then,
In pitying the sad life of men.”
As men are, with long miseries
Buying these idle words and vain,
My foolish love, with lasting pain;
And yet, thou wouldst have died at last
If in all wisdom thou hadst passed
Thy weary life: forgive me then,
In pitying the sad life of men.”
Then in such bliss his soul did swim,
But tender music unto him
Her words were; death and misery
But empty names were grown to be,
As from that place his steps she drew,
And dark the hall behind them grew.
But tender music unto him
Her words were; death and misery
But empty names were grown to be,
As from that place his steps she drew,
And dark the hall behind them grew.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |