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The Collected Works of William Morris

With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris

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As scarce she knew that she was lone,
She stood there for a little space,
One hand still covering up her face,
The other drooped down, half stretched out,
As if her lone heart yet did doubt
Somewhat was left her to caress.
Yet soon all sound of her distress
Was silent, though thought held her fast
And nought she moved; the field-mouse passed

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Close to her feet, the dragon-fly,
A thin blue needle, flickered by,
The bee whirled past her as the morn
Grew later, and strange thoughts were born
Within her.
So she raised her head
At last, and gazing round, she said:
“Is pitying love all dead on earth?
Is no heart left that holds of worth
Love that hands touch not, and that eyes
Behold not? Is none left so wise
As not to know the smart of bliss
That dieth out 'twixt kiss and kiss?”