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

She ceased; but he stooped down, and stammering said:
“Mayst thou be happy, O most lovely maid,
And thy sweet life yet know a better day:
And I will strive to bring thee on thy way,
Who am the well-loved son of a rich man
Who dwells in Thebes, beside Ismenus wan.”
Therewith he reached his hand to her, and she
Let her slim palm fall in it daintily;
But with that touch he felt as through his blood

Strange fire ran, and saw not the close wood,
Nor tangled path, nor stream, nor aught but her
Crouching before him in her gold and fur,
With kind appealing eyes raised up to his,
And red lips trembling for the coming kiss.

But ere his lips met hers did she arise,
Reddening with shame, and from before his eyes
Drew her white hand, wherewith the robe of gold
She gathered up and from her feet did hold,
Then through the tangled wood began to go,
Not looking round; but he cared not to know
Whither they went, so only she were nigh.
So to her side he hurried fearfully,
She nought gainsaying, but with eyes downcast
Still by his side betwixt the low boughs past,
Following the stream, until a space of green
All bare of trees they reached, and there-between
The river ran, grown broad and like a pool,
Along whose bank a flickering shade and cool
Grey willows made, and all about they heard
The warble of the small brown river-bird.
And from both stream and banks rose up a haze
Quivering and glassy; for of summer days
This was the chiefest day and crown of all.

There did the damsel let her long skirts fall
Over her feet, but as her hand dropped down,
She felt it stopped by Hylas' fingers brown,
Whereat she trembled and began to go
Across the flowery grass with footsteps slow,
As though she grew aweary, and she said,
Turning about her fair and glorious head:
“Soft is the air in your land certainly,
But under foot the way is rough and dry
Unto such feet as mine, more used to feel
The dainty stirrup wrought of gold and steel,
Or tread upon the white bear's fell, or pass
In spring and summer o'er such flowery grass

As this, that soothly mindeth me too much
Of that my worshipped feet were wont to touch,
When I was called a queen; let us not haste
To leave this sweet place for the tangled waste,
I pray thee therefore, prince, but let us lie
Beneath these willows while the wind goes by,
And set our hearts to think of happy things,
Before the morrow pain and trouble brings.”

She faltered somewhat as she spoke, but he
Drew up before her and took lovingly
Her other hand, nor spoke she more to him,
Nor he to her awhile, till from the rim
Of his great shield broke off the leathern band
That crossed his breast, whether some demon's hand
Snapped it unseen, or some sharp rugged bough
Within the wood had chafed it even now;
But clattering fell the buckler to the ground,
And startled at the noise, he turned him round.
Then, grown all bold within that little space,
He set his cheek unto her blushing face,
And smiling, in a low voice said:

“O sweet,
Call it an omen that this, nowise meet
For deeds of love, has left me by its will,
And now by mine these toys that cumber still
My arms shall leave me.”

And therewith he threw
His brass-bound spear upon the grass, and drew
The Theban blade from out its ivory sheath,
And loosed his broad belt's clasp, that like a wreath
His father's Indian serving-man had wrought,
And cast his steel coat off, from Persia brought;
And so at last being freed of brass and steel,
Upon his breast he laid her hand to feel
The softness of the fine Phœnician stuff
That clad it still, nor yet could toy enough
With that fair hand; so played they for a space,

Till softly did she draw him to a place
Anigh the stream, and they being set, he said:

“And what dost thou, O love? art thou afraid
To cast thine armour off, as I have done,
Within this covert where the fiery sun
Scarce strikes upon one jewel of thy gown?”

Then she spake, reddening, with her eyes cast down:
“O prince, behold me as I am to-day,
But if o'er many a rough and weary way
It hap unto us both at last to come
Unto the happy place that is thine home,
Then let me be as women of thy land
When they before the sea-born Goddess stand,
And not one flower hides them from her sight.”

But with that word she set her fingers white
Upon her belt, and he said amorously:
“Ah, God, whatso thou wilt must surely be,
But would that I might die or be asleep
Till we have gone across the barren deep,
And you and I together, hand in hand,
Some day ere sunrise lights the quiet land,
Behold once more the seven fair-gleaming gates.”

“O love,” she said, “and such a fair time waits
Both thee and me; but now to give thee rest
Here in the noontide, were it not the best
To soothe thee with some gentle murmuring song,
Sung to such notes as to our folk belong;
Such as my maids awhile ago would sing
When on my bed a-nights I lay waking?”

“Sing on,” he said, “but let me dream of bliss
If I should sleep, nor yet forget thy kiss.”
She touched his lips with hers, and then began
A sweet song sung not yet to any man.