The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

O'er Gregory's eyes the pain of morn
Flashed suddenly, and all forlorn
Of late-gained clean-forgot delight,
He sat up, scowling on the bright
Broad day that lit the hurrying crowd
Of white-head waves, while shrill and loud
About him cried the gulls; but he
Lay still with eyes turned toward the sea,
And yet beholding nought at all,
Till into ill thoughts did he fall,
Of what a rude and friendless place
The world was, through what empty days
Men were pushed slowly down to death.

Then o'er the fresh morn's breezy breath
Was borne his fellows' cheery cry;
He rose up, sighing heavily,
And turned round to the steep grey bent,
Whereunder had been pitched their tent
Upon the odorous thymy grass.
And down the slope he saw them pass,
And heard their voices blithe enough:
But loathsome unto him, and rough
Must all men seem upon that morn,
Their speech a hard thing to be borne.

He stood by as they launched the boat,
And little did their labour note,
And set no hand thereto at all;
Until an awe on these did fall;
They muttered, “Ah, the Stargazer
Beholdeth strange things drawing near!”

So somewhat silently they sailed
In up the firth, till the wind failed,
Betwixt the high cliffs, and with oars
They swept midmost the rocky shores
And spake few words.

But smoother now

120

Was grown the worn Stargazer's brow,
And his thin lips were less close-set,
For well-nigh now did he forget
Fellows and boat and land and sea,
And, waking, seemed no less to be
East of the Sun, West of the Moon;
And when they landed at high-noon,
From all men would he go apart
In woods and meads, and deal by art
With his returning memory;
And, some things gained, and some slipped by,
His weary heart a while to soothe,
He wove all into verses smooth,
As tells the tale: that wotteth not
How much its last-told words have got
That his hand writ: for soothly he
Was deemed a craftsmaster to be
In those most noble days of old,
Whose words were e'en as kingly gold
To our thin brass, or drossy lead:
—Well, e'en so all the tale is said
How twain grew one and came to bliss—
Woe's me! an idle dream it is!