University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The Collected Works of William Morris

With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris

expand sectionI. 
expand sectionII. 
expand sectionIII, IV, V, VI. 
collapse sectionVII. 
expand section 
collapse section 
  
collapse section 
expand section 
collapse section 
expand sectionXIV. 
expand sectionXVI. 
expand sectionXVII. 
expand sectionXVIII. 
expand sectionXIX. 
expand sectionXXI. 
expand sectionXXII. 
expand sectionXXIV. 
expand sectionXXVII. 
expand sectionXXVIII. 
expand sectionXXXI. 
expand sectionXXXVII. 
expand sectionXL. 
expand sectionXLVII. 
expand sectionXLVIII. 
expand sectionLII. 
expand sectionLIV. 
expand sectionLVII. 
expand sectionLIX. 
expand sectionLXI. 
expand sectionLXII. 
expand sectionLXIII. 
expand sectionLXVI. 
expand sectionLXXIV. 
expand sectionLXXVII. 
expand sectionLXXXII. 
expand sectionLXXXVI. 
expand sectionXC. 
  
expand section 
expand sectionVIII. 
expand sectionXIV. 
expand sectionXVII. 
expand sectionXIX. 
expand sectionXX. 
expand sectionXXVII. 
expand sectionXXVIII. 
expand sectionXXIX. 
expand sectionXXX. 
expand sectionXXXI. 
expand sectionXXXIII. 
expand sectionXLIII. 
expand section 
expand sectionIX. 
expand sectionX. 
expand sectionXII. 
expand sectionXIV. 
expand sectionXV. 
expand sectionXVI. 
expand sectionXVII. 
expand sectionXXI. 
expand sectionXXIV. 

And now had night's last hope an end,
When to the garden-gate he came.
In grey light did the tulip flame
Over the sward made grey with dew;
And as unto the place he drew
Where yesterday he sang that song,
The ousel-cock sang sweet and strong,
Though almost ere the sky grew grey
Had he begun to greet the day.

128

There now, as by some strong spell bound,
Acontius paced that spot of ground,
Restless, with wild thoughts in his head;
While round about the white-thorn shed
Sweet fragrance, and the lovely place,
Lonely of mankind, lacked no grace
That love for his own home would have.
Well sang the birds, the light wind drave
Through the fresh leaves, untouched as yet
By summer and its vain regret;
Well piped the wind, and as it swept
The garden through, no sweet thing slept,
Nor might the scent of blossoms hide
The fresh smell of the country-side
Borne on its breath; and the green bay,
Whose breast it kissed so far away,
Spake sometimes yet amid the noise
Of rustling leaves and song-birds' voice.