The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
I. |
II. |
III, IV, V, VI. |
VII. |
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. |
XII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XXI. |
XXIV. |
The Collected Works of William Morris | ||
So by the middle of the day,
That murky pass had he gone through,
And come to country that he knew;
And homeward turned his horse's head,
And passing village and homestead,
Nigh to his palace came at last;
And still the further that he passed
From that strange castle of the fays,
More dreamlike seemed those seven days,
And dreamlike the delicious night;
And like a dream the shoulders white,
And clinging arms and yellow hair,
And dreamlike the sad morning there.
Until at last he 'gan to deem
That all might well have been a dream—
Yet why was life a weariness?
What meant this sting of sharp distress?
This longing for a hopeless love,
No sighing from his heart could move?
That murky pass had he gone through,
And come to country that he knew;
And homeward turned his horse's head,
And passing village and homestead,
Nigh to his palace came at last;
And still the further that he passed
From that strange castle of the fays,
More dreamlike seemed those seven days,
And dreamlike the delicious night;
And like a dream the shoulders white,
And clinging arms and yellow hair,
And dreamlike the sad morning there.
Until at last he 'gan to deem
That all might well have been a dream—
Yet why was life a weariness?
What meant this sting of sharp distress?
This longing for a hopeless love,
No sighing from his heart could move?
The Collected Works of William Morris | ||