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The Collected Works of William Morris

With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris
Morris, William (1834-1896)

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VOLUME I THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS
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VOLUME II THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON
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VOLUME III, IV, V, VI THE EARTHLY PARADISE
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VOLUME VII THE STORY OF GRETTIR THE STRONG. THE STORY OF THE VOLSUNGS AND NIBLUNGS
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VOLUME IX LOVE IS ENOUGH. POEMS BY THE WAY
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VOLUME X THREE NORTHERN LOVE STORIES. THE TALE OF BEOWULF
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THREE NORTHERN LOVE STORIES AND OTHER TALES TRANSLATED FROM THE ICELANDIC BY EIRÍKR MAGNÚSSON AND WILLIAM MORRIS
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THE STORY OF GUNNLAUG THE WORM-TONGUE AND RAVEN THE SKALD
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THE STORY OF FRITHIOF THE BOLD
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THE STORY OF VIGLUND THE FAIR
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CHAPTER V. THE WEDDING OF OLOF SUNBEAM.
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CHAPTER XI. THE BREWING OF A WITCH-STORM
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CHAPTER XII. OF HAKON THE EAST-MAN.
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CHAPTER XIV. KETILRID BETROTHED TO HAKON.
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CHAPTER XVII. THE PARTING OF VIGLUND AND KETILRID.
  
[“Maiden, my songs remember]
  
[“A little way I led him]
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CHAPTER XX. VIGLUND COMES OUT TO ICELAND AGAIN.
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CHAPTER XXI. GUESTING AT GAUTWICK.
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CHAPTER XXII. A WEDDING AT GAUTWICK.
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THE TALE OF HOGNI AND HEDINN
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THE TALE OF BEOWULF SOMETIME KING OF THE FOLK OF THE WEDER GEATS. TRANSLATED BY WILLIAM MORRIS AND A. J. WYATT
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VOLUME XII THE STORY OF SIGURD THE VOLSUNG AND THE FALL OF THE NIBLUNGS
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VOLUME XIV THE HOUSE OF THE WOLFINGS. THE STORY OF THE GLITTERING PLAIN
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VOLUME XV THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAINS
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VOLUME XVI NEWS FROM NOWHERE. A DREAM OF JOHN BALL. A KING'S LESSON
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VOLUME XVII THE WOOD BEYOND THE WORLD. CHILD CHRISTOPHER. OLD FRENCH ROMANCES
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VOLUME XXI THE SUNDERING FLOOD. UNFINISHED ROMANCES
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VOLUME XXIV SCENES FROM THE FALL OF TROY AND OTHER POEMS AND FRAGMENTS

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Across the gap made by our English hinds,
Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold
Far off the long-roofed church; the shepherd binds
The withy round the hurdles of his fold
Down in the foss the river fed of old,
That through long lapse of time has grown to be
The little grassy valley that you see.
Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still,
The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear
The barley mowers on the trenchèd hill,
The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir,
All little sounds made musical and clear
Beneath the sky that burning August gives,
While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives.
Ah, love! such happy days, such days as these,
Must we still waste them, craving for the best,
Like lovers o'er the painted images
Of those who once their yearning hearts have blessed?
Have we been happy on our day of rest?
Thine eyes say “yes,” but if it came again,
Perchance its ending would not seem so vain.
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