The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
 | I. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| III, IV, V, VI. |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
|
|
| II. |
|
|
|
|
| III. |
|
|
|
|
| IV. |
|
|
|
| VII. |
|
|
|
|
| III. |
| IV. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
|
| 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. |
|
|
| I. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| XI. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
|
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XIV. |
|
| V. |
|
| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XVII. |
| XXX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
|
| IV. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XII. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| XIV. |
|
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| XI. |
| XIII. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXII. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
|
| VII. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XXI. |
| XV. |
|
| III. |
| VI. |
| IX. |
| XV. |
| XX. |
| XXIX. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XLI. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVIII. |
| LI. |
| LV. |
| LVIII. |
| XVI. |
|
| II. |
| VIII. |
| XVII. |
|
| XXI. |
|
|
| III. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| X. |
| XVII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
|
|
|
| XXIV. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
151
O weary hearts, shall all be vain,
Shall all be nought, this strife and love?
—Once more with slow foot did she move
Unto the last step, with no sound
Unto Acontius turning round,
Who spake not, but, as moved at last
By some kind God, the apple cast
Into her bosom's folds—once more
She stayed, while a great flush came o'er
Her sweet face erst half-dead and wan;
Then went a sound from man to man
So fair she seemed, and some withal
Failed not to note the apple fall
Into her breast.
Shall all be nought, this strife and love?
—Once more with slow foot did she move
Unto the last step, with no sound
Unto Acontius turning round,
Who spake not, but, as moved at last
By some kind God, the apple cast
Into her bosom's folds—once more
She stayed, while a great flush came o'er
Her sweet face erst half-dead and wan;
Then went a sound from man to man
So fair she seemed, and some withal
Failed not to note the apple fall
Into her breast.
Now while with fear
And hope Acontius trembled there
And to her side her mother came,
She cast aside both fear and shame
From out her noble heart, and laid
Upon the altar of the Maid
Her fair right hand, clasped firm around
The golden fruit, and with no sound
Her lips moved, and her eyes upraised
Upon the marble image gazed,
With such a fervour as if she
Would give the thing humanity
And love and pity—then a space
Unto her love she turned her face
All full of love, as if to say,
“So ends our trouble from to-day,
Either with happy life or death.”
And hope Acontius trembled there
And to her side her mother came,
She cast aside both fear and shame
From out her noble heart, and laid
Upon the altar of the Maid
Her fair right hand, clasped firm around
The golden fruit, and with no sound
Her lips moved, and her eyes upraised
Upon the marble image gazed,
With such a fervour as if she
Would give the thing humanity
And love and pity—then a space
Unto her love she turned her face
All full of love, as if to say,
“So ends our trouble from to-day,
Either with happy life or death.”
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |