The following is a list of known Morris poems and drafts written between 1865-74, with transcriptions of the text of poems not included in CW or AWS and alternate versions. A list of early drafts of Earthly Paradise tales is found in "Morris' Drafts for the Earthly Paradise."
| A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H | I | J | K | L | M | N | O | P | Q | R | S | T | U | V | W | X | Y | Z |
A. Poems and fragments from B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, ff. 86-126.
A-1. “Rhyme Slayeth Shame” ( If as I come unto her she might hear, / If words might reach her when away I go, )
Published Atlantic Monthly, February 1870. Included in CW,
XXIV, 357.
Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45, 298A, f. 86; Morris autograph on blue ruled paper.
Variants from CW in manuscript: Morris did not indent lines; in line 7 he
wrote “The world fades with its words” rather than “The world fades with its
woods”; in line 8 he did not capitalize “my life.” Copyist’s version in B.
L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f.10. Also a signed autograph manuscript is in the Pierpont
Morgan Library, M. A. 925, f. 57.
B. L. MS 45,298A, f. 96
If as I come unto her she might hear
If words might reach her when away I go,
Then speech a little of my heart might show
Because indeed nor joy nor grief nor fear
Silence my love; but her grey eyes and clear
Truer than truth pierce through my weal and woe,
The world fades with its words, and nought I know
But that my changed life to my life is near:
Go, then, poor rhymes who know my heart indeed
And sing to her the words I cannot say,
That love has slain time, and knows no today
And no tomorrow; tell about my need,
And how I follow where her footsteps lead
Until the veil of speech death draws away.
*A-2. “Dear if God praise thee much for many a thing”
Unpublished. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45, 298A, ff. 86-87; Morris autograph on blue ruled paper. This follows directly after no. 1, “Rhyme Slayeth Shame.” Its fourteen lines are reproduced separately as a sonnet by a copyist in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 13.
[ff. 86-87]
Dear if God praise thee much for many a thing
And somewhere builds for thee a house of bliss
I poor and weak must praise thee most for this,
That thou beholding how my heart doth cling
To thy dear heart makest no questioning
That nor in longing look nor word nor kiss
There hideth aught where aught of guile there is
For thee nor me thou fearest no treacherous sting
Yet do I wonder praise thee as I may
Or fear to trust thee utterly herein
Or deem that thou wouldst call my service sin—
Thou who with love for all thy staff and stay
Goest great hearted down the weary way
Still looking for the new dawn to begin—
A-3. “As This Thin Thread” ( As this thin thread on thy dear neck shall lie )
Published CW, XXIV, 359. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, ff. 87-88; Morris autograph on blue ruled paper. 4 drafts, none an uncorrected fair copy. In the last line “death” is uncapitalized. Also a fair autograph copy in WMG J153. Reproduced by a copyist in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 7.
[WMG J153]
As this thin thread upon thy neck shall lie
So on thy heart let my poor love abide,
Not noted much and yet not cast aside
Since it may be that fear and mockery
And shame, earth’s tyrants, the thin thing shall try
Nor burn away what little worth may hide
Within its pettiness, till fully tried
Time leaves it as a thing that will not die.
Then hearken! Thou, who forgest day by day
No chain for me, but arms I needs must wear,
Although at whiles I deem them hard to bear,
If thou to thine own work no hand will lay –
--That which I too I may not cast away,
Keep what I give till death our eyes shall clear.
B. L. MS 45,298A, f. 87
As this thin thread upon thy neck shall lie
So on thy heart let my poor love abide,
Not noted much, and yet not cast aside;
And shame, earths tyrant the thin thing shall try
Nor scorch therefrom what little worth may hide
Amidst its pettiness, till fully tried
Time leaves it as a thing that will not die.
Then hearken, thou who forgest day by day
No chain, but armour that I needs must wear
Although at whiles I deem it hard to bear
If thou to thine own work no hand will lay—
That which I took I may not cast away
Keep what I give till death our eyes shall clear
A-4. “The Doomed Ship” ( The doomed ship drives on helpless through the sea, )
Published AWS, I 539. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, ff. 88-89; Morris autograph on blue ruled paper. 2 drafts, the second nearly a fair copy. Reproduced by a copyist in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 9. Resembles D. G. Rossetti’s sonnet, “Lost on Both Sides,” written 1854 and first published 1869.
B. L. 45,298A, f. 88
The doomed ship drives on helpless through the sea,
All that the mariners may do is done,
And death is left for men to gaze upon,
While side by side two friends sit silently;
Friends once, foes once, and now by death made free
Of Love and Hate, of all things lost or won;
Yet still the wonder of that strife bygone
Clouds all the hope or horror that may be.
Thus, Sorrow, are we sitting side by side
Amid this welter of the grey despair,
Nor have we images of foul or fair
To vex save of thy kissed face of a bride,
Thy scornful face of tears when I was tried,
And failed neath pain I was not made to bear
Earlier version f. 89
The ship drifts helpless oer the hungry sea
And all that mariners can do is done
And death is left for folk to gaze upon
And side by side two men sit silently
Friends once foes once but now by death left free
To think of all that life has lost or won
Yet still the wonder of that strife bygone
Twixt love and hate clouds all that yet may be
So sorrow are we sitting side by side
Amid the welter of the grey despair
Nor have I images of foul or fair
To vex me save thy kissed face of a bride
Thy scornful face of tears when I was tried
And faltered neath more woe than I might bear
Yet still that strife twixt love and hate bygone
Clouds all the hope and horror that may be
AWS, p. 539
The doomed ship drives on helpless through the sea,
All that the mariners may do is done
And death is left for men to gaze upon.
While side by side two friends sit silently;
Friends once, foes once, and now by death made free
Of Love and Hate, of all things lost or won;
Yet still the wonder of that strife bygone
Clouds all the hope or horror that may be.
Thus, Sorrow, are we sitting side by side
Amid this welter of the grey despair,
Nor have we images of foul or fair
To vex, save of thy kissed face of a bride,
Thy scornful face of tears when I was tried,
And failed neath pain I was not made to bear.
The doomed ship drives on helpless through the sea,
All that the mariners may do is done
And death is left for men to gaze upon.
While side by side two friends sit silently;
Friends once, foes once, and now by death made free
Of Love and Hate, of all things lost or won;
Yet still the wonder of that strife bygone
Clouds all the hope or horror that may be.
Thus, Sorrow, are we sitting side by side
Amid this welter of the grey despair,
Nor have we images of foul or fair
To vex, save of thy kissed face of a bride,
Thy scornful face of tears when I was tried,
And failed neath pain I was not made to bear.
A-5. “Near But Far Away” ( She wavered, stopped, and turned; methought her eyes, )
Published AWS, I, 538. Titled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, ff. 90-91; Morris autograph on blue ruled paper. 2 drafts, 1 nearly a fair copy, dated May 11th. For line 15, AWS reproduced the first of two versions; the second is, “I seemed to stand before a wall of stone.”
B. L. MS 45,298A, f. 90
She wavered, stopped, and turned; methought her eyes,
The deep grey windows of her heart, were wet,
Methought they softened with a new regret
To note in mine unspoken miseries,
And as a prayer from out my heart did rise
And struggled on my lips in shame’s strong net,
She stayed me, and cried Brother! Our lips met
Her dear hands drew me into Paradise
Sweet seemed that kiss till thence her feet were gone
Sweet seemed the word she spake, while it might be
As wordless music—But truth fell on me
And kiss and word I knew, and left alone
Face to faced seemed I to a wall of stone
While at my back there beat a boundless sea.
May 11th.
f. 91 [in blue ink, several corrections; apparently an earlier version than f. 90]
She wavered and turned back methought her eyes
The deep grey windows of her heart were wet
Methought they softened somewhat with regret
To note in mine unspoken miseries
And even as a bitter word did rise
Up from my heart struggling with shames strong net
Brother she cried we spoke not our lips met
She stayed me crying
Her dear hands drew me into Paradise
Sweet seemed that sweet kiss till her feet had gone
Sweet seemed that word while yet it was to me
Like wordless music then ruth fell on me
And kiss and word I knew – a wall of stone
Before me made me bitterly alone
And at my back there beat a boundless sea
AWS, 538-39
[p. 538]
Near But Far Away
She wavered, stopped and turned, methought her eyes,
The deep grey windows of her heart, were wet,
Methought they softened with a new regret
To note in mine unspoken miseries,
And as a prayer form out my heart did rise
And struggled on my lips in shame’s strong net,
She stayed me, and cried ‘Brother!’ our lips met,
Her dear hands drew me into Paradise.
[p. 539]
Sweet seemd that kiss till thence her feet were gone,
Sweet seemed the word she spake, while it might be
As wordless music—But truth fell on me,
And kiss and word I knew, and, left alone,
Face to face seemed I to a wall of stone,
While at my back there beat a boundless sea.
A-6. “May Grown A-Cold” ( O certainly, no month is this but May! )
Published Atlantic Monthly, March 1870. Included in CW,
XXIV, 358. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 91; Morris autograph on blue
ruled paper. CW uses one of two variants for line 7; the other is,
“And make of bliss a thing to tarry long.” CW also reverses the endings
of ll. 10 and 11, which in manuscript read:
Why sayest thou the thrushes sob and moan
And that the sky is hard and grey as stone
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A
O certainly no month is this but May
Sweet earth and sky sweet birds of happy song
Do make thee happy now and thou art strong
And many a tear thy love shall wipe away
And make the dark night merrier than the day
Straighten the crooked and make right the wrong
And [--] of bliss so that it tarry long
Go cry aloud the hope the heavens do say.
Nay what is this and wherefore lingerest thou
Why sayest thou the thrushes sob and moan
And that the sky is hard and grey as stone
Why sayst thou the east tears bloom and bough
Why seem the sons of men so hopeless now
Thy love is gone poor wretch thou art alone
*A-7. “Lonely Love and Loveless Death” ( O have I been hearkening / To some dread newcomer? )
Inscribed in The Book of Verse, 1870, 44-46; published by David J. DeLaura, “An Unpublished poem of William Morris,” Modern Philology 62 (1965), 340-41, transcribed from an autograph copy in the Humanities Research Center Library at the University of Texas (Ms. File [Morris, W.] Works ). DeLaura dates it in the late 60’s. Another draft exists in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 92 and 92v; Morris autograph on blue ruled paper.
[University of Texas M. S.]
O have I been hearkening
To some dread newcomer?
What chain is it bindeth
What curse is anigh.
That the world is a-darkening
Amidmost the summer,
That the soft sunset blindeth,
And death standeth by?
Doth it wane, is it going,
Is it gone by forever,
The life that seemed round me,
The longing I sought?
Has it turned to undoing
That constant endeavour,
To bind love that bound me
To hold all it brought?
I beheld, till beholding
Grew pain thrice told over;
I hearkened till hearing
Grew torment past speech;
I dreamed of enfolding
Arms blessing the lover,
Till the dream past all bearing
The dark void did reach.
Beaten back, ever smitten
With pain that none knoweth,
Did love ever languish
Did hope ever die?
I know not, but litten
By the light that love showeth
She was mine through all anguish,
Never lost, never nigh.
I know not: but never
The day was without her;
I know not: but morning
Still woke me to her;
All miles that might sever,
All faces about her,
Weary days and self-scorning—
All easy to bear.
Look back, while grown colder
The sunless day lingers,
And the tree tops are stirring
With the last wind of day!
If thou dist behold her,
If thine hand held her fingers,
If her breath thou were hearing,
What words wouldst thou say?
Words meet for the hearkening
Of death the newcomer:
For the new bond that bindeth
The new pain anigh—
For the world is a-darkening
Amidmost the summer,
Earth sickeneth & blindeth,
No love standeth by.
45,298A, f. 92 and 92v
[f. 92, autograph on blue ruled paper with some corrections; this seems earlier than the University of Texas version]
O have I been hearkening
To some dread newcomer
What chain is it bindeth
What curse is anigh
That the world is a-darkening
Amidmost the summer
That soft sunlight blindeth
And death standeth by.
Doth it wane is it going
Is it gone by for ever
The life that seemed round me
The longing I sought
Has it turned to undoing
That hourly endeavour
To bind love that bound me
To hold all it brought.
I beheld till beholding
Grew pain thrice told over
I hearkened till hearing
Grew anguish past speech
I dreamed of enfolding
Of beloved one and lover
Till the dream past all hearing
The dark void did reach
Beaten back ever smitten
With pain that none knoweth
Did love ever languish
Did hope ever die
I know not but litten
With the light that love showeth
She sat over mine anguish
Never lost never nigh
[f. 92v]
I know not but never
The day was without her
I know not but morning
Still woke me to her
The miles that might sever
The strangers about her
Weary days and self scorning
All easy to bear
Look back while grown colder
The sunless day lingers
And the tree tops are stirring
With the last wind of day
If thou didst behold [h]er
If thy hand touched her fingers
If her breath thou were hearing
What words wouldst thou say?
Words meet for the hearkening
Of death the newcomer
For the new bond that bindeth
The new pain anigh
For the world is a-darkening
Amidmost the summer
Death sickeneth and blindeth
No love is anigh—
Book of Verse, 1870
[p. 44]
Lonely Love and Lovely Death
O have I been hearkening
To some dread newcomer?
What chain is it bindeth,
What curse is anigh
That the World is a darkening
Amidmost the summer,
That the soft sunset blindeth
And death standeth by?
Doth it wane, is it going,
Is it gone by forever,
The life that seemed round me
The longing I sought?
Has it turned to undoing,
That constant endeavour
To bind love that bound me,
To hold all it brought?
I beheld till beholding
Grew pain thrice told over;
I hearkened till hearing
Grew woe beyond speech;
I dreamed of enfolding
Arms blessing the lover
[p. 45]
Till the dream past all bearing
The dark void did reach.
Beaten back, ever smitten
By pains that none knoweth,
Did love ever languish
Did hope ever die?
I know not, but litten
By the light that love showeth
I beheld her through anguish
Never lost, never night.
I know not: but never
The day was without her,
I know not; but morning
Still woke me to her;
The miles that might sever,
All faces about her
Weary days, and self-scorning—
Ah easy to bear!
Look back, while grown colder,
The sunless day lingers,
And the treetops are strirring
[p. 46]
With the last wind of day—
If thou didst behold her
If thine hand touched her fingers
If her breath thou were hearing
What words wouldst thou say?
Words meet for the hearkening
Of Death the new-comer,
For the new bond that bindeth
The new pain anigh:
For the World is a-darkening
Amidmost the summer,
Death sickeneth and blindeth
No love standeth by.
*A-8. “Everlasting Spring” ( O my love my darling, / what is this men say )
Unpublished. Titled in manuscript., B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, ff. 93-94; Morris
autograph on blue ruled paper. 2 drafts, 1 nearly a fair copy. Copyist’s version
in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 5 and 5v. 2 lines quoted in Jack Lindsay, William
Morris, his Life and Work, 185.
Narrator speaks to a “Love that cannot love me,” and imagines their return
to a prelapsarian world of mutual love.
B. L. Ms. 45,298A
[f. 93]
O my love my darling, what is this men say
That I, for all my yearning have no words to deny?
Why was I made for nothing, for my life to pass away,
For thy kindness as my madness all utterly to die?
Love that cannot love me, een as I would believe
Those dreams of the sad morning, when thou callest me to come
Little touches, little kisses, all forgiveness to receive,
So I long to trust the story of that innocent sweet home.
Those fair meads of the old painter with their blossoms red and white,
That thy feet touch, and my feet touch, as our hands cling palm to palm,
Nought lost and nought forgotten of old sorrow and delight,
Nought ended, nought perfected, but all wrapped in peace and calm
Nought has changed us mid those blossoms, but the breath of happiness,
As on earth am I ungainly, and thou sweet and delicate,
But thou lov’st me as I love thee, for now innocence doth bless
My fierceness into patience, and I fear no change or hate.
O my love, my darling! Thou kissest me again
In that far off country, and still a little shame
Burns on thy cheek to tell me, of remembrance of the pain
When my lips unkissed and trembling nigh to thine of old time came.
Thy beloved and clinging fingers still loosen from mine own
For a minute, then cling tighter, as thou thinkest of the days
When thou must thrust back pity, and I must not bemoan,
When I heard thy sweet name spoken, burning with unspoken praise
There as I behold thee no change shall chill thine eyes,
No fear my ears shall deafen, as I hear thy heavenly speech;
I shall not miss the pleasure twixt doubting and surprise
Of thy kisses, O beloved, that no more I may beseech.
[f. 93v]
There to a certain expectation all hope and fear is turned,
And love swalloweth up all longing, and yet longing ne’er is done,
And the dreadful wearying patience, and the passionate pain that burned
Unforgotten and unwasted, are but Love now are but one.
Yet, thy pity and thy wisdom, and thy kindness and thy care,
No longer then shall part us, for no more than love are they,
And the bitter earthly folly of my craving and despair
No less than love, my darling, shall seem that endless day
Alas, for the white morning with no hope of touch or kiss!
Woe worth the world’s awaking from the simple days bygone!
Woe for the wise world’s wisdom, the rich worlds growing bliss
That make that hope a folly of twain grown into one!
[f. 94, rough version]
O my love my darling what is this they say
That I for all my yearning have no words to deny
O dark it seems and dreadful that my life shall pass away
That thy madness and thy kindness all utterly shall die
Love that cannot love me, e[’]en as I would believe
Those dreams of the sad morning when thou callest me to come
Little touches little kisses all forgiveness to receive
So I long to trust the story of that innocent sweet home
Those fair meads of the old painter with their blossoms red and white
That thy feet touch and my feet touch as our hands cling palm [to palm]
Nought lost and nought regretted of old sorrow and delight
Nought finished nought perfected but all wrapped in peace and calm
Nought has changed us in those meadows but the breath and calm of happinesss
As on earth am I ungainly and thou sweet and delicate
But thou lov[e]st me as I love thee and all innocence doth bless
My fierceness into patience for I fear no coming hate
O my love my darling thou kisseth me again
In that far off country and still a little shame
In thy cheek to tell me that thou thinkest of the pain
When my lips unkissed and trembling nigh to thine of old time came --
Thy beloved and clinging fingers still loosen from mine own
For a minute then cling tighter as thou thinkest of the days
When thou must thrust back pity and I must not bemoan
When I heard thy sweet name spoken – burning with unspoken praise
There to certain expectation all hope and fear is turned
And love swalloweth all longing, and yet longing ne[’]er is done
And the dreadful wearying patience and the passionate pain that burned
Unforgotten and unwasted they are now they are [one]
Then as I behold thee no change shall vex thine eyes
No fear my ears shall deafen as I hear thy heavenly speech
I shall not miss the pleasure twixt doubting and surprise
Of thy kisses my beloved that no more I may beseech
Thy sweet pity and thy wisdom and thy kindness and thy care,
Shall no more thrust me from thee no more than love they are
And all the bitter cry of my craving and despair
No less than love my darling should seem that endless day
Alas for the white morning with no hope of touch or kiss
Woe for the worlds awaking and the simple times bygone
Woe for the wise worlds wisdom and the rich worlds growing bliss
That make the hope a folly of twain grown into one.
*A-9. “Silence and Pity” ( “Thy lips my lips have touched no more may speak / The words that through my sorrow used to break; )
Unpublished. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 95; Morris autograph on blue ruled paper. Also in fair copied Morris autograph, William Morris Gallery, Ms. J149, titled. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298b, f. 8.
Silence and Pity (WMG J149)
Thy lips my lips have touched no more may speak
The words that through my sorrow used to break;
Yet may they tremble sometimes for my sake
Because pure love thou art, and very ruth.
The eyes that I have kissed, no more may gaze
Into wild dreamland meads my heart to raise,
Yet may they change at thought of my changed days,
Gazing with pure love from the heart of truth.
Thine oft kissed little hands no more may write
The treasured lines of comfort and delight
Yet may they yearn for what thou dost endite,
O heart of very love, O life of ruth!
Hands, eyes, and lips, dear ministers of love,
How can I pray sweet pity not to move
Your calm to pain, my folly to reprove,
Since of my heart thou knowest, O lady Truth!
Ah midst it all, think not of me as one
To curse the sun that yestereve it shone
To wish the light of all my life undone!
And yet – thy pity, O sweet Love and Ruth!
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 95 [seems an early draft, autograph on blue ruled paper]
Thy lips my lips have touched no more may speak
The words that through my sorrow used to break
Yet may they tremble some times for my sake
Because pure love thou art and very ruth.
The eyes that I have kissed no more may gaze
As they were wont my heart to heaven to raise
Yet may they change to think of my sad days
And look with pure love from the heart of truth.
Thine oft kissed little hands no more may write
The treasured words of comfort and delight
Yet may they yearn for what thou dost endite
O heart of very love, o life of ruth
Hands eyes and lips dear ministers of love
How shall I pray sweet pity; not to move
Your loveliness my folly to reprove
Since of my heart thou knowest lady Truth.
But midst thy ruth think not of me as one
To curse the sun that yesterday it shone
To wish the light of all my life undone—
And yet – thy pity O sweet love and Ruth!
A-10. “Hope Dieth: Love Liveth” ( Strong are thine arms, O love, and strong / thy heart to live, and love, and long; )
Inscribed in The Book of Verse, 1870, 23-25, titled "Hope Dieth Love Liveth"; published CW, IX, Poems By the Way, 106. Untitled B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 96; Morris autograph, on blue ruled paper, not a fair copy but reasonably clear. Copy prepared for printer in HM 6427, f. 26, Morris autograph, titled. Copied HM 6427, ff. 36-37 with annotation by C. Fairfax Murray, “Copied by Lady Burne-Jones.”
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 96
Strong are thine arms O love and strong
Thy trenchant sword to cleave the wrong
But thou art wed to grief and wrong --
Live then and long now hope is fled
Live on and labour through the years
Make pictures through the mist of tears
Of unforgotten happy fears
That blest the time ere hope was dead
Draw near the place where once we stood
And delights swift rushing flood
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope that now is dead
Dream in the morn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be
Dream that thou layest hands on me
Wake wake to [call?] hope’s body dead
Weep weep although no hairs breadth move
The earth below the heavens above
One tittle for the bitter love
Lament lament that hope is dead –
Lament one by one and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone
Count on rest for hope is dead
Sighs rest thee not tears give no ease
Life hath no joy and death no peace
The years change not though they decrease
For hope is dead for hope is dead
Speak love I listen far away
I bless thy tremulous lips that say
Mock not the afternoon of day
Mock not [the] tide when hope is dead
I bless thee love as still thou sayest
Mock brother this to cumbered waste
Hold love hand and make no haste
Down the long way no hope [is dead]
With other name do we name pain
The long years beat our hearts in vain
Mock not our loss grown in[to?] gain
Mock not our lost hope lying dead
Behold with lack of happiness
Our master love our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less
Love dieth not though hope is dead
Our eyes gaze for the morning star
No glimmer of the dawn afar
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noonday hope lay [dead]
Book of Verse, 1870
[p. 23]
Hope Dieth Love Liveth
Strong are thine arms O love, and storng
Thine heart to live and love and long
But thou art wed to grief and wrong:
Live then and long, though hope is dead!
Live on and labour through the years!
Make pictures through the mist of tears
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead.
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead!
Count oer and oer, and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone.
Count on, rest not for hope is dead.
[p. 24]
Weep, though no hairsbreath thou shalt move
The settled earth, the heavens above
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace.
The years change not, though they decrease—
For hope is dead, for hope is dead!
Speak, love, I listen: far away
I bless thy tremulous lips, that say—
‘Mock not the afternoon of day
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!
I bless thee, O my love, who say’st
‘Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste!
I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.
‘With other names do we name pain,
The long years wear our hearts in vain
Mock not our loss grown into gain
[p. 25]
Mock not our lost hope living dead.
‘Our eyes gaze for no morning star
No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead:
‘Behold with lack of happiness
The Maser, Love our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less—
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!
A-11. Song: “Twas one little word that wrought it” ( Refrain: Half-forgotten, unforgiven and alone. )
Published CW, XXIV, 360-61. Titled, “Song,” B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 97 and 97v.; Morris autograph on white ruled paper. Copyist’s version B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, ff. 12-13.
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 97 and 97v
Song
’Twas one little word that wrought it
One sweet pang of pleasure bought it
Till too sore the heart was wrung,
Till no more the lips might bear
To be parted yet so near
Then the darkness closed around me
And the bitter waking found me
Half-forgotten, unforgiven, and alone.
Hearken; nigher still and nigher
Had we grown, methought my fire
Woke in her some hidden flame
And the rags of pride and shame
She seemed casting form her heart,
And the dull days seemed to part;
Then I cried out, ‘Ah I move thee
And thou knowest that I love thee –
--Half-forgotten unforgiven and alone!
Yea, it pleased her to behold me
Mocked by tales that love had told me,
Mocked by tales and mocked by eyes
Wells of loving mysteries;
Mocked by eyes and mocked by speech
Till I deemed I might beseech
For one word, that scarcely speaking
She would snatch me from that waking
Half forgotten unforgiven and alone.
[f. 97v]
All is done – no other greeting,
No more sweet tormenting meeting
No more sight of smile or tear,
No more bliss shall draw anear
Hand in hand with sister pain –
Scarce a longing vague and vain –
No more speech till all is over,
Twixt the well-beloved and lover
Half-forgotten unforgiven and alone
A-12. Song: “Our Hands Have Met” ( Our hands have met, our lips have met )
Published CW, XXIV, 365. Untitled, B. L. Ms. 45,298A, f. 98, autograph manuscript on blue ruled paper with some corrections. Copyist’s
version in B. L. Ms. 45,298B, f. 2 and 2v. In manuscript there are two versions
of lines 3 and 4, the CW version and
Can I forget can I forget
O love was all done long ago.
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 98
Our hands have met our lips have met
Our souls who knows when the wind blows
How light souls drift mid longing set
If thou forget can I forget.
O[ur] love was all done long ago. [alt. The time that was not long ago]
Thou wert not silent then, but told
Sweet secrets dear – I drew so near
Thy shamefaced cheeks grown overbold
That scarce thine eyes might I behold!
Ah was it then so long ago.
Trembled my lips and thou wouldst turn
But hadst no heart to draw apart
Beneath my lips thy cheek did burn –
Yet no rebuke that I might learn;
Yea kind looks still, not long ago.
Wilt thou be glad upon the day
When unto me this love shall be
An idle fancy passed away
And we shall meet and smile [and] say
O wasted sighs of long ago
Wilt thou rejoice that thou hast set
Cold words dull shows twixt hearts drawn close
That cold at heart I live on yet
Forgetting still that I forget
The priceless days of long ago.
A-13. “Why Dost Thou Struggle” ( Why dost thou struggle, strive for victory )
Published CW, XXIV, 362-63. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 100-101; Morris autograph on blue ruled paper. Note on margin, “Ask to be together.” Copyist’s version B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 2 and 2v, beginning st. 6, “I wore a mask, because though certainly / I loved him not, yet was there something soft” ).
A-14. “Fair Weather and Foul” ( Speak not, move not, but listen, the sky is full of gold, )
Published CW, XXIV, 366. Titled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 102; Morris autograph on blue ruled paper, nearly a fair copy. In stanza 6, CW gives “their tyranny,” manuscript “this tyranny.” Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 4.
A-15. “O Far Away to Seek” ( O far away to seek, close-hid for heart to find, )
Inscribed in A Book of Verse, 1870, 26-27, titled "Love Alone"; published CW, XXIV, 364. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 103 autograph on blue ruled paper. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 3.
Book of Verse, 1870
[p. 26]
Love Alone
O far away to seek, close-hid for heart to find,
O hard to cast away, impossible to bind
A pain when found and held, a pain when fallen away,
Still joy or pain or anguish, be nigh us, Love, today!
Sweet was the summer day, before thou camest here:
But never sweet to me, and Death was drawing near—
Is it summer still? what means the ill word Death?
What means the utter joy thy mouth, Love, promiseth?
Where fore must thou babble of my being once alone?
What is this idle word, that thou mayest yet begone?
Laugh, laugh, Love, as I laugh when mine own love kisseth me,
And saith no more of joy twixt lips and lips shall be.
O Love thou hast slain Time; how shall he live again
O Love thou hast slain rest and we bless thy sleepless pain:
Hope and Fear have slain each other, Doubt forgetteth all he said.
Death in some place forgotten, lingering, and half-dead.
[p. 27]
When my hand forgets her cunning I will loose thee Love and pray
Ah, and pray to what? – for a never-ending day
Wherein we twain may sit, parted undying still
With thoughts of the old story our sundered hearts to fill.
*A-16. “O land sore torn and riven”
Unpublished. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 119; Morris autograph on white paper. Northern poem.
[f. 119]
O land sore torn and riven
Ward of the northern sea
Forgiving unforgiven
Thy God wrought misery
For the years I shall not meet thee
I winter singer greet thee
Thou garden of all wonder,
And bide a better day
What day? – the winter thunder
Rolls round thy hills of dread
The hidden fires whereunder
The unforgotten dead
Forget not in their slumber
The worlds grief & the cumber
Unholpen hearts that sicken
Mid Nalgfar’s long delay.
A-17. “We loosed from the quays on a Friday”
Published AWS, I, 462. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 120; Morris autograph. First person narration of a voyage to Norway, possibly a discarded draft. Dating uncertain, though May Morris believed that the northern poems which ended up in Poems by the Way were from the early 1870s, and this may be a discarded draft for such a poem.
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 120
We loosed from the quays on a Friday at nones at the ending of may.
And many a penny’s worth lay neath the hatches Said Adam of Ghent
Broadcloth and weapons well wrought if little of silver or gold
And nought is to tell of at first for trippingly ever we went
Down the full water of Ghent to the northland mouth we lay
Ere came the south westerly wind and the sails toward Norway we bent
And saw never a ship on the sea till the land flow came down on us cold
At the dawn of the June-tide it was and the gray clouds rolled off from the sun
And sunlitten above for anigh the mid Norway we were
Some forty miles off it maybe and the southwest fell flat and the flaw
Died out and the ripple was done and wayless we wallowed it there
Till again betwixt morning and noon oer the swell a new ripple gan run
And the north and the clouds were afoot and the Thrandheimers mountain were clear
Far off little and dark they looked as the side drew
So slowly a mile we made till the lookout cried for a sail
And down on the wind she came, and aboard was a heart or two
But quicker maybe as I cried: so sail the longships ever
And the oars are out belike, and little is all we may do
In this light wind of the land if luck and our lady fail
And een as I spake and laughed and whiter her canvass grew
And her drake-head flashed in the sun, and again our sails must strain
So I bade strike sail and abide and hoped for chaffer and gain
For ever we deemed her deep
*A-18. “Thus have I told many ways of the dealings of prudence with men”
Unpublished. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 125, Morris autograph on white paper.
*A-19. “Peevish and weak and fretful do I pray”
Unpublished. Untitled, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 86v; Morris autograph on blue ruled paper. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, ff. 51-51v.
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 86v
On blue ruled paper with corrections
Peevish and weak and fretful do I pray
To thee great hearted to thee wise and strong
Who bear[’]st the burden of thy grief and wrong
The world perchance to mock and jest would turn
My love for thee and ask what I desire
Or with the name of some unholy fire
Would name the thing wherewith my heart doth yearn.
For they loves proper self may scarce discern
Nor to his golden house have they drawn nigher
Than where his flowers of joy with poisons burn—
But I now clinging to thy skirt pass through
The dangerous pleasant place with halfshut eyes
And with new names I name old miseries
And turned to hopes are many fears I knew
And things I spoke as lies seem coming true
Since thou hast shown me where the high heaven lies
*A-20. “Deep Sea, mighty wonder.” A stanza from “Earth the Healer, Earth the Keeper.”
The entire poem published in CW, IX, Poems by the Way, 182-84. An autograph draft of 6 lines is in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,318, f. 94, another in B. L. 45,298A, f. 106, and a copyist’s version is in B. L. 45,298B, f. 95.
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,318, f. 94
Deep sea, mighty wonder,
Great treasures thereunder,
No heart grief, no burning,
No hope of returning,
No fear in my keeping
Lie, stilled of thy weeping
B. L. Ms. 45,298A, f. 106
In a copyist’s hand
Deep Sea, might wonder,
Great treasure thereunder,
Nor heart grief, no burning,
No hope of returning,
No fear in my keeping
Lie, stilled of thy weeping
Seems identical to B. L. Add. Ms. 45,318 version
*A-21. Dramatic fragment containing King, Oliver, Sir Walter and Yoland (“Well put thy case and more than one of us”)
Unpublished. Autograph in B. L. Add. M. S. 45,298A, ff. 117-18v (bottom half of sheet), blue ruled paper. Dramatic fragment. Goodwin lists as about 1872; seems early draft for Love Is Enough.
[f. 117]
King
Well put thy case and more than one of us
Will for the nonce be kings and queens of love.
In stead of her who wears the violet
Down there in Provence: is it long to tell—
No sire the minstrel said the case was this:
Crowned with a rose-wreath once a lady sat
Betwixt two lovers, one ungarlanded:
What helmet perchance late came back from the war
As our Sir Walter here.
May be my lord
But one was garlanded the other not.
[f. 117v]
Lady and queen twere a good deed to give
Thy chaplet to our friend—nay wilt thou not?
And thou my gentle cleaver of the press
Wilt thou not have it? – well they tale my maid
Sire one was garlanded the other not.
A forfeit if thou tell thy tale twice oer.
Nay shall I tell it once sire? by your leave
The lady took the chaplet from her head
And set it soft upon his head that lacked;
And softly drew the crown from him that had
And crowned herself withal: nor [know I] which of these
Was most her friend the crowned one or discrowned.
If I speak first or this my lady here
Ye will all speak one way Sir marshall speak:
For thou hast been a lover many years.
Though faith thy head is scarce so grey as mine—
Would she be longer taken off the crown
Than setting of it on? for fain were I
To have her finders on my aching brow
The longest that might be.
Said lover-like
Nor lawyer like meseems: thy pleasure man
Would make her neither more nor less her friend
Thou shootest beside the mark.
Thou Yoland speak
Sire, was the lady fair in very sooth?
I mean a gracious and a loving one
For were she other, she might wish to please
The crownless man and heed no whit the while
Whether the chapleted were lief or loth.
[f. 118]
Still were she gracious short my doom must be
To wit that he she discrowned was her friend
For he was bound and used to bear all slights
That she might lay upon him any whiles
Lady and Queen I prithee say thy say.
In earnest sire since these fair friends have laughed
The discrowned was her friend; to give is all:
And mercy ’tis to take who shall ask more?
O sweet and fair thy lips are made my love
Thy voice as mellow gold amid the brass.
But all would give thee all and were thou poor
Thou yet mightst learn to tell another tale
Ah maybe Sir – will not Sir Walter speak –
Yea will I speak my lady – Shall I give
And not be given withal?
I heard men say
That on a day or two thou gav[’]st good store
And bore away but little: if men built
Storehouses for their hearts.
Yea my lord
Yet let us to this game: thou sayest O Queen
That giving is delight: yet wottest thou
How giving must be twofold lest thou cast
Thy very soul into a pitiless sea
Whose tide shall sweep over thy gift and thee
And make thee both as though ye had not been
And yet God gives who getteth not again
Yea and last shall smite the world with fire
And who meanwhile is God but God alone--
[f. 118v]
Ah lady hast thou seen the ancient saw
Writ on Sir Walter’s sword from hilt to point
Bear and forbear thou shalt live long and loved
So would I live in worlds love if may be
The world will have me: give my crown today
Nor deem much given take my crown tomorn
Nor hope to wear it long and so at last
Leave the dear world behind with a light tale
To tell of all I was or hoped to be.
So wise thou art thou wouldst not seem too wise
So loving that thou dreadest words of love.
Yea for I have my masters in both these
My wise Sir Walter he: the wise in war
My loving marshal: marshall the dance
And lo thy friend the lady Yoland’s eyes--
Laughing above her lips demure and close
At any matter graver than a song!
Nay Sire some songs of mine are grave enow.
Lo there the sun is down: but yet awhile
The nightingale delayeth his delight
Until we hold our peace to hearken him
Come sing the moon up with the gravest song
Till he begin who sings in tongue forgot
The unforgoetten word of woe of yore foregone.
--Song—
So end we then today in hopes tomorrow
Shall have but half his joy but twice his sorrow
*A-22. "Thous hast it then the pouch"
Autograph dramatic fragment, B. L. Add. M. S. 45,298A, f. 116 and 116v on white ruled paper, possibly a first draft for a drama based on a love triangle after the manner of Launcelot, Arthur and Guenevere.
[f. 116]
Thou hast it then the pouch?
yea safe enow
Sweet cutpurse, o the little tender hands!
the letter too?
’Tis safe within the pouch—
Then let me see it:
nay the moon is bright
Yet scarcely bright enow to read thereby
trust me Oliver I know full well
Thy ladys writing, and can write as fine:
Can I forget her letter that I gat
The morning ere thou wentest to the war
Bear thine own shame I may not make it more
Yet had thou been my friend as I was thine
Thou wouldst have told me: all shall be forgot
My folly and thy friendship and thy words
And thou shalt have a many friends go[d] wot
While I am lonely:--This is writ as well
And is most like: Yea I can tell it o’er.
O Love so loving, beyond speech beloved
Day after day dies lonely and forlorn
Lonely through thou art here again once more
Before my face: if thou hadst known my hopes
While thou wert fighting in the perilous time
My hopes and fears: is love so wicked then
That I should hope thy friends and mine might die:
O Love let us forget all things but love:
For I have bared my breast to take from it
Thy letter and to count the kisses oer
Thou gavest me once that lie there yet alive
Although that day is dead and scarce I live.
Dost thou not see how like one dead I go
Twixt hall and bower: come thou my love my God
And raise the dead to life a little while
That when we die at last our love may live—
Her name beneath I wrote all without help
Sweet clerk come lend me these two hands a while
To look at in the morn
[f. 116v]
Wilt thou be kind
As thou art now when she has left the court—
O Sweet: and yet a full foul deed it were
But if I hated her but if we twain
Were lovers evermore.
Nay why so foul
Why should the good king be a cuckold yet.
Thou knowst he is not
Yea but he shall be.
As sure as this thy ear is honey sweet
This Walter loves the Queen: this very eve
Thou he sat far from her by thee my love
What heeded he what answered he but her:
These twain a riding walking side by side
Look never on the other, never keeps
Their wariness
A-23. “Sad-eyed and soft and grey thou art, O morn!”
Published in CW, XXIV. Autograph B. L. Add. M. S. 45,298A, f. 115. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 11.
*A-24 "So I rose and felt my feet on the daisied grass in a while"
Fragment, date uncertain. B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 124
So I rose and felt my feet on the daisied grass in a while
And looked, and a little way off at end of a lily glade
A man on the grass there lay fair clad and fair and young
One hand on an open book by his left side lightly laid
As I looked on his parted lips and his musing happy smile
I saw that he saw me not and I grew a little afraid
That this was the death indeed and the heaven so often sung
Afraid, for the sooth to say I trusted not the place
For all its perfect peace, in the golden dusk and sweet
And I looked that there should arise some longing more than pain
As when to a lover lost death and rewarding meet
And her first look full of love is the last look of her face
But so as fluttered my heart fell fluttered [“somewhat,” not crossed out] to my feet
And I looked and found a scroll and thereon was written plain
Look and listen hereon and returning tell if thou wilt
*A-25. "Thus have I told many ways of the dealings of prudence with men"
Fragment, B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298A, f. 125. Not yet identified; possible draft of unfinished narrative poem.
[f. 125]
Thus have I told many ways of the dealings of prudence with men
Keeping not words back the while from my heart that were eager to well
Speaking as speaks a craftsmaster plain words for the shortness of life
Longing to make you see most clear whatever befell
But now is it time to cry out as time to forebear was then
Nor were life overlong the praises of Prudence to tell
But for many a thing to do mid the cumber and the strife
Whether in the body or no I wot not certainly which
I heard such words on a while as I woke in a garden fair
And a film fell off from my eyes in the twilight time of day
And warm was the scented wind neath a quivering sky and clear
And a heaven of blossoms breathed round an ancient palace rich [?]
And with the marble shapes of men and all that the wood has dear
Of the bones of the ancient earth soft and golden and grey
B. Poems and Fragments Preserved Only in Copyist’s hand in B. M. Add. Ms. 45,298B
*B-1. “Alone unhappy by the fire I sat”
Unpublished. Transcribed in Le Bourgeois, "The Youth of William Morris," 139-40. Untitled, copyist’s version in B. M. Add. Ms. 45, 298B, ff. 27-29, but was not published. The three pages of the notebook directly before this poem have been cut out.
[f. 27] Alone, unhappy by the fire I sat
And pondered o’er the changing of the days
And of the death of this good hope and that
That time agone our hearts to heaven would raise.
But now lie buried ’neath the stony ways
Where change and folly lead our wearied feet
Till face to face this verse and sorrow meet.
I strove to think what like the days would be
If ere we die we should grow glad again
But yet no image of felicity
From out such twice changed days my heart could fain
For still on pain I thought, and still on pain
O shifts from grief to joy we poets sing
And of the long days make a little thing.
But grief meseems is like eternity
While our hearts ache and far-of[f] seems the rest
If we are not content that all should die
That we so fondly once unto us pressed
Unless our love for folly be confessed
And we stare back with cold and wondering eyes
On the burnt days of our fool’s paradise.
[f. 28]
So I when of the happy days to come
I strove to think no whit would all avail
Rather my thoughts went back to that changed home
And in mine ears there rang some piteous tale
And all my heart for very pain did fail
To think of thine; I cannot bridge the space
’Twixt what may be and thy sad weary face.
Ah do you lift our eye-brow in disdain
Because I dare to pity or come nigh
To your great sorrow, helpless weak and vain
E’en as I know myself – ah rather I
On you my helper in the darkness cry
For you alone unchanged now seem to be
A real thing left of the days sweet to me.
Dreamy the rest has gown now that my lips
Must leave the words unsaid my heart will say
While I grow hot, and o’er the edge there slips
A word that makes me tremble and I stay
With flattering heart the thoughts that will away
We meet, we laugh and talk but still is set
A seal o’er things I never can forget.
[f. 29] But must not speak of, still I count the hours
That bring my friend to me with hungry eyes
I watch him as his feet the staircase mount
Then face to face we sit, a wall of lies
Made hard by fear and faint anxieties
Is drawn between us, and he goes away
And leaves me wishing it were yesterday.
Then when they both are gone, I sit alone
And turning foolish triumphs pages o’er
And think how it would be if they were gone
Not to return, or worse if the time bore
Some seed of hatred in its fiery core
And nought of praise were left to me to gain
But the poor [boon?] we talked of as so vain.
B-2. Three Chances and One Answer ( O love, if all the pleasures of the earth )
Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 14.
Three chances and one answer
O love, if all the pleasures of the earth
Can give one life if new and happy birth
Were given me now, how could I weigh their worth
If low and soft thy sweet voice said to me
“We, who were twain, one loved soul let us be.”
Love if they showed me plenteous rest and peace,
A summer land, and fruitful years increase,
Thou knowest how my soul would turn from these,
If thou shouldst say, “one kiss love, ere the cold
The lonely dark, and the sad year grown old.”
And now that thou art silent, and thine eyes
Must turn no more to these my miseries,
Thou wilt not think me grown so bitter-wise
That I, the dream of what thy lips might say
For all the good of life, could give away.
B-3. Song from Orpheus: “While agone my words had wings”
Published CW, XXIV, 251-53. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, ff. 31-32.
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 31 titled, Songs from Orpheus
[f. 31]
While agone my words had wings
And might tell of noble things
The wide warring of the kings.
And the going to and fro
Of the wise that the world do know.
Then the sea was in my song
And the wind blew rough and strong
And the swift steeds swept along,
And the grinding of the spears
Reached the heart through the ears.
So a slim youth sang I then
Mid the beards of warring men
Till the great hall rang again.
And the swords were on their knees
As they hearkened words like these.
Or before the maids hat led
The white oxen sleek full-fed
When th4e field gave up its dead,
The dead lover of the sun
Sweet I sang when day was done.
Hearts I gladdened, limbs made light
When the feet of girls gleamed white
In the odorous torch-lit night,
And belike my heart did flame
Through my cheek told lies of shame.
Or in days not long agone
Would I sit as if alone
Though around stood many a one.
Each as if alone we were
For of fresh love sang I there.
All such things could I sing now,
And to this dull silence show
How the life of man doth grow
Of all love and hope and hate
And unseen slow-creeping fate.
But of this how shall I sing?
The sick hope whereto I cling.
The despair that every-thing
Moaneth with about mine eyes
This dull cage of miseries?
B-4. Song from Orpheus: “O ye who sit alone, and bend above the earth”
Published CW, XXIV, 253-54. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, ff. 33-34.
CW, XXIV, 253-54 [not published separately but as a part of “The Story of Orpheus and Eurydice”
Oh ye, who sit alone, and bend above the earth
So great that the world’s gain Is but a hollow dearth,
And pain forgot like laughter, And love of fleeting worth,
Did ye teach me how to sing Or where else did I gain
The tears slow-born of bliss, The sweetness drawn from pain?
I stand alone and longing Nor know if aught doth live
Except myself and sorrow Nor know with whom to strive,
Nor know if ye have might To hold back or to give,
Nor know if ye can love, Or what your hate shall be
Or if ye are my foes, Or the love that burns in me.
Can ye hearken as men hearken, Can I move you as erewhile
I moved the happy kings, And the wise men did beguile?
When the lover unbeloved Must sigh with rest and smile
For the sweetness of the song That made not light of woe,
And the youngling stand apart, and learn that life must go.
[p. 254]
O ye who ne’er were fettered, By the bonds of time and ill,
Give give, if ye ware worthy Or leave me worthier still:
For the measure of my love No gain of love should fill.
If I held the hands I love, If I pressed her who is gone,
Living, breathing, to my breast, Not e’en so were all well won.
O be satisfied with this, That no end my longing knows
If the years might not be counted, For we twain to sit all close
As on earth we sat a little Twixt the lily and the rose,
Sat a little and were gone Ere we mingled in the strife,
Ere we learned how best to love, Ere we knew the ways of life.
Folk pray to us of earth To be loved, and sick at heart
Must turn their eyes away, And from every hope depart:
We are lone who cannot give, And grow hard beneath the smart
But ye have wealth and might, Ye can hearken and can give,
What gain is there in death? O be wise and make alive!
B-5. Song from Orpheus: “Once a white house there was”
Published in CW, XXIV, 255-57. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, ff. 35-38
CW24, 255-57 in “The Story of Orpheus,” never published as a separate poem in Morris' lifetime
[p. 255]
O me, a white house there was
Set amid the Thracian grass
And the wood-dove moaned thereover,
And the Thracian loved and lover,
Passing by the garden-close
Speaking words that no one knows,
Stopped awhile to smile and say
“Orpheus shall be wed today—”
“The white feet of Eurydice
Fair as thou art fair to me
Soft beneath the lilies white—”
“Bear her forth to full delight
Till the night and morn shall touch.”
“Come then, love, for overmuch
Them and us the Gods do bless
With enduring happiness.”
“Yea love, for the grass is green
Still, and thrushes run between
[p. 256]
The faint mallows overworn,
And the berries of the thorn
Know no ruddy threat of death!”
So they felt each other’s breath
And each other’s shoulders warm,
And the weight of hand and arm
As they went amid the grass;
There her naked feet did pass
And her hand touched blossoms fair
By the poison lurking there
In the yellow-throated snake;
But their beauty did not wake
His dull heart and evil eyes
And belike in happy wise
They abide now, and shall come
Yet again unto that home.
Ah, the gate is open wide
And the wild bees only hide
In the long-cupped blossoms there,
And the garden-god is bare
Of the flowers he used to have,
And no scythe the sward doth shave
And the wilding grasses meet
High above their faltering feet
Where the lilies used to grow
And unnailed the peach hangs now,
No more is the fountain full
And the dial’s gold is dull;
And the foot-worn pink-veined stone
Of the porch all green hath grown;
Through the empty chambers cold
Moans the wind as it did hold
Dull winter mid the summer’s heart.
Think ye that the twain depart
Glad that they alone are glad?
[p. 257]
They who saw the clothes that clad
Her fair body that fair night,
Yellowing as the jasmine white
Yellows as it fades away,
And how withered roses lay
On the pillows of the bed
That ne’er touched her golden head?
They who looked so close they saw
The bed-gear into creases draw;
Drawn that noon so by my mouth
Feverish with half-happy drought.
And the threshold, saw they not
Where my lips thereon were hot
Ere she came, that she might feel
As her feet thereo’er did steal
Trembling sweet, and know not why,
Fluutering hope so soon to die
In the heart of utter bliss
As the still night saw our kiss?
Think ye that these twain might rest
Till they knew why they, so blessed
Such a sorrow of heart should feel?
Through the summer day they steal,
E’en as folk who dwell alone
In a land whence all are gone
Where their shame hath wrought the thing.
For their hands forget to cling
Each to each, and their sweet eyes
Are distraught with mysteries
Hard to solve and hard to leave.
Till at ending of the eve
Folk they meet at last to tell
How the death of joy befell.
B-6. Song from Orpheus: “O if ye laugh, then am I grown”
Published CW, XXIV, 258-60. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, ff. 39-41.
[258]
O if ye laugh, then am I grown,
O Gods, as here I stand alone
The body of a ceaseless moan,
Yet better than ye are, a part
Of the world's woe and the world's heart.
For the world laughed not on the morn
When my full woe from night was born
When first I called on you forlorn:
The world laughed not, although I feared
When first its waking breath I heard.
O me! the morn was bright enow;
A little westering wind did blow
Across the ey-field's outer row,
Across her white breast no more warm,
Across my numbed enfolding arm.
[p. 259]
The July morn was bright and clear,
No more the cock's cry did I hear,
Now when the sparrows wakened there,
Now when all things awoke around
Mine arms abbout her heart enwound.
Then o'er the edge of earth and sky
The sun arose, and silently
Lit up the liy-heads anigh;
The sun stole through the room to light
Her arm hung down, her fingers white.
Higher and higher arose the sun
Until unto our breast it won
And burned there till the noon was done;
Uopn my heart the sun was hot
And scorched me sore, but harmed her not.
Then toward the west it 'gan to wend,
No wind was left the rye to bed
Till drew the day unto an end;
No wind until the night grew cold
Above the face my hands did hold.
Yet all that bright day mocked me nought,
Through sunny hours its end was wrought
Yet was it sad enow methought;
It end was wrought mid calm and peace
Yet mournfully did it decresase.
And if men went upon their ways
E'en as in other summmer days,
Surely they toiled with no glad face,
Amid the bright day did they seem
To toil as in a hapless dream.
[p. 260]
And so at first I thought indeed
The world was kind to help my need;
No thing therein, from man to weed,
But it was kind my love to lack,
To help my need and wish her back.
But ye help not nor know how I
Would help the whole world's misery
And give it bliss ne'er passing by,
Ne'er passing by, if I might sit
Above the world, and yearn to it.
B-7. Song from Orpheus: “O my love how could it be”
Published CW, XXIV, 273. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 298B, ff. 42-43.
[p. 273]
O my love, how could it be
But summer must be brought to me
Brought to the world by thy full love?
Long within thee did it move,
Move and bud and change and grow,
Till it wraps me wholly now,
And I turn from thee a while
Its o'er-sweetnesss to beguile
With a little thought of rest.
Ah me, have I gained the best,
Have I no more to desire
No more hope to vix and tire
No more fear to sicken me,
Nought but the full gift of thee,
All my soul to satisfy.
Ah sweet, lest my longing die
E'en a moment, rise and come,
For the roses of our home,
For the rose and lily here
Are too sweet for us to bear.
Let us wander through the wood
Till a little rest seem[s] good
To our weary limbs, till we,
As the even dies silently,
Neath the chestnut boughts are laid
Faint with love but not downweighed
By the summer's restlessness,
Wearied but most fain to bless
Pity-laden summer, sad
With the hope the spring once had.
*B-8. “They have no song, the sedge is dry”
Unpublished. B. L. Ms. 45,298B f. 50, in copyist’s hand.
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, f. 50
[f. 50]
They have no song, the sedges dry
And still they sing,
It is within my breast they sing
As I pass by.
Within my breast they touch a string
They wake a sigh
There is but sound of sedges dry
In me they sing.
C-1: Sad-eyed and soft and grey thou art, O morn
45,298A, f. 115
Sad eyed and soft and grey thou art o morn!
Across the long grass of the marshy plain
Thy west wind whispers of the coming rain
The lark forgets that day is grown forlorn
C. Other Morris Poems
*C-1. "Praise of Venus" ( Before our lady came on earth/ Little there was of joy or mirth )
Inscribed in "The Book of Verse," 1870, 49-51. Also included in "The Ring Given to Venus" in The Earthly Paradise.
Book of Verse, 1870
[p. 49]
Praise of Venus
BEFORE our lady came on earth
Little there was of joy or mir
About the borders of the sea
The sea-folk wandered wearily,
About the wintry river-side
The weary fishers would abide
Alone within the weaving room
The girls would sit before the loom
And sing no song and play no play
Alone from dawn to hot mid-day
From mid-day into evening
The men afield would work, nor sing
Mid weary thoughts of man and God
Before thy feet the wet ways trod
Unkissed the merchant bore his care
Unkissed the knights went out to war,
Unkissed the mariner came home,
Unkissed the minstrel men must roam
Or in the stream the maids would stare
Nor know why they were shapen fair
[p. 50]
Then yellow locks, their bosoms hite
Their libms well wroguth for all delight
Seemed fruitless things that waited death
As hopeless as the lowers beneath
The weariness of unkissed feet
THEREFORE O Venus well may we
Praise the green ridges of the sea
Oer which upon a happy day
Thou cams’t to take our shame away
Well may we praise the curdling foam
Amidst the which thy feet did bloom,
Flowers of the Gods; the yellow sand
They kissed betwixt the sea and land
The bee-beset ripe seeded grass
Though which thy find limbs first did pass;
The purple dusted butterfly
First blown against thy quivering thigh;
The first red rose that touched thy side
And overblown and fainting died;
The flickering of the orange shade
Where first in sleep thy limbs were laid
The happy day’s sweet life and death
Whose air first caught thy balmy breath:--
[p. 51]
Yea all these things well praised may be
But with what words shall we praise thee
O VENUS O thou love alive
Born to give peace to souls that strive.
*C-2. “Dorothea”
Unused Earthly Paradise tale, B. L. Ms. 45,309, f. 50-81; an earlier
draft is in the Fitzwilliam. Described with long quotations in K. L. Goodwin,
“An Unpublished Tale from The Earthly Paradise”, Victorian Poetry
13, nos. 3 and 4: 91-102. “...it is clear that she [May Morris] felt a need
to hide the poem from view, but her action was dictated, I believe, by considerations
of a social and moral kind that were purely personal and local. The literary
quality of the work justifies the removal of the supression it has suffered.”
K. L. Goodwin. Published in F. Boos, The Design of William Morris’ ‘The
Earthly Paradise’ (New York: Mellen, 1991), 400-45.
*C-3. “O fair gold goddess”
William Morris Gallery, A. Ms. J150 fair copy. Printed with notes by R. C.
Ellison, English, 15 (1964): 100-102. Ellison assigns 1873 as the
date of composition. The poem is signed “Vilhjálmar Vandraed askáld,” Icelandic
for “William the Troublous Skald. Another autograph is in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,318,
f. 92 and 92v, on blue ruled paper.
[WMG J150]
O fair gold goddess,
As fain as thou mayest be
That gone I were
To the white seas-roof land,* [Iceland]
Yet fainer were I
To leap on the wave-swine,
If God for me
The ghosts would quicken
Of Odin’s fellows,
The old abiders
In the land of Naddod. [Iceland]
To live a life there
Too short for sorrow,
Too loud with sword-clash
For any weeping.
Might the world go backward
Then, Roses’ Freyia,
Soon were I faring
Along the way
That leads to Valhall,
Long rest before me,
And my right hand holding
A glory maybe
To give to Odin
For foul is waxen
That world the Gods made,
And I – I help nought
Nor holpen am I.
But all are gone by,
And the edge play is over
And the long frost is fallen upon them.
There the wind wails ever
Without a story;
No whither the sea’s way leadeth.
The deeds they did
Are as hopes foredone
Cumbering the heart with curses.
Have ye not heard
How hard they wrought?
And lo, the world ever worseneth.
Yet these are they
I must turn to now,
The dead—yea the dead forgotten.
Fair friends were they
Were they alive;
And now for me meet friends it may be.
O Rhine-fires Goddess
This wretched trickle
Of Kvasir’s mead,
(The last it may be )
Thy skald now poureth;
Still praying pardon
For fainting heart
And tongue grown feeble,
Since nought he helpeth
Nor holpen is he.
Vílhjálmr Vandrađaskáld
B. L. Add. Ms. 45,318, ff. 92 and 92v
[f. 92]
O fair gold goddess
As fain as thou mayst be
That gone I were
To the white seas-roof land
Yet fainer were I
To leap on the wave-swine
If God for me
The ghosts would quicken
Of Odin’s fellows,
The old abiders
In the land of Naddod.
To live a life there
Too short for sorrow
Too loud with sword-clash
For any weeping.
Then, roses’ Freyia,
Soon were I faring
Along the way
That leads to Valhall
Long rest before me,
And my right hand holding
Maybe a glory
To give to Odin
For foul is waxen
That world the Gods made,
And I help nought
Nor holpen am I.
But all are gone by,
And the edge-play is over
And the long frost is fallen upon them.
There the wind wails ever
Without a story;
No whither the sea’s way leadeth.
[f. 92v]
The deeds they did
Are as hopes foredone
Cumbering the world with curses.
Have ye not heard
How hard they wrought?
And thee world ever worseneth?
Yet these are they
I must turn to now,
The dead—yea the dead forgtotten.
Fair friends were they
Were they alive--
And now for me meet friends it may be.
O Rhine-fire’s Goddess
This wretched trickling
Of Kvasir’s mead,
The last it may be
Thy skald now poureth;
Still praying pardon
For fainting heart
And tongue grown feeble,
Sinice nought he helpeth
Nor holpen is he.
C-4. “What All Men Long For and What None Shall Have” ( Bare is the world and waste and wide )
Published AWS, I, 539-40. Ms. in Troxell Collection, Princeton University Library. See Benjamin Fisher IV, “William Morris’s ‘What all men long for and what none shall have,’” Library Chronicle 43 (1976): 47-54.
AWS, I, 539-40
[p. 539]
What All Men Long For and None Shall Have
Bare is the world and waste and wide
Where many an evil doth betide
And men have lived and men have died
Mingling their love with pride and rage
Their foolish joy with fear and age:
What thing shall save? Be strong and brave,
How better shall it crush thy cage?
A little space of fruitless ruth,
Of acted lies and spoken truth,
[p. 540]
Of gainless eld, and restless youth,
Of love well trusted turned to shame;
And then the change we may not name;
The change the end, And thou dost wend
Unto the dark whence all things came.
Go cry aloud, ‘A little rest
Before the end, is all the best.’
How shall thou gain it and be blessed
Wit aught of joy, e’en for a space?
Harden thine eyes, make smooth thy face!
Wear the mask still, Lie down with ill!
Rest wearily from hope and praise.’
Is it enough, forgetfulness
That may forget the sharp distress,
But not that it forgetteth bliss?
The words a shame that once we spake
‘For love and truth and honour’s sake,’
The worst well known, All longing flown
But longing that our hearts might ache.
Lo the world’s rest, lo the world’s choice!
Mad longing for forbidden joys,
Or babbling over hated toys
Beneath the scorn, beneath the smile
Of thine own face grown wise and vile:
No hope no God, No way untrod,
No curse, no blessing to beguile.
Choose, choose the best, the pain, but pray,
If thou hast breath to cast away
For somewhat of a better day;
A rest with something good to gain
More than dead love and wasted pain;
Cry bitterly, To drawn anigh
One heart at least, and cry in vain.
C-5. “Praise of Wine” (“The sun grows dim and the day waxes old” )
Published AWS, I, 541-43.
[p. 541]
Praise of Wine
The sun grows dim and the day waxes old
And the blossoms droop, for May is a-cold
And the nook in the street the wind doth hold,
And the night lies dark before us.
But come if ye are wearied and sad
Or think too much of the days ye have had,
For here is yet what shall make you glad
Though the night lies dark before us.
Shut up in a narrow prison it is
That weaver of the veil of bliss,
Across the face of all memories
When the night lies dark before us.
How shall we name it better than Wine,
That glorious hope, that deathless sign
That the heavens yet to the earth decline
Though the night lie dark before us?
Think how while we sorrow and slept
Higher and higher the hearth’s flame crept,
Till out of the press the red stream leapt
And the dark night lies before us.
How did we yearn in our misery
Till across the land and across the sea
It came to the land where the chill winds be
And the night lies dark before us.
Come then and wrath this dark flask fair
With the flowers our heads no more may bear
Lest we scorch them black with the first of care,
For the dark night lies before us.
[p. 542]
Yea, lightly lay your hand thereon,
For therein lies hid the life of the sun
Whereby are sorrow and joy made one
When the dark night lies before us.
Sweet, sweet as the primrose beds,
As the summer wind o’er the lily-heads,
As the clover field the night dew weds
When the dark night lies before us.
Heart O heart, now growest thou bold
And hope long dead and a love long cold
For a little minute thou yet mayst hold
Ere the night lies dark before us.
And this hard world that we kept at bay,
The panting struggles of yesterday
We gaze on now like an idle play
For the dark night lies before us.
Clear grow our eyes and we see how vain
Were hope and fear of pleasure and pain:
How shall it be when it comes again?
Yet the night lies dark before us.
Loath to depart, yet weak to abide,
Praying to see yet fain to hide,
Bringing together that we may divide,
While the dark night lies before us.
Such were we once, but now through thee
We share but the woes of divinity;
Better or worse we cannot be
And the night lies dark before us.
With happy/pensive years hast thou filled our eyes
As musically now, and overwise,
We talk of the curse that over us lies
And the dark night stretched before us.
[p. 543]
And if to-morrow but short and vain
We call this space betwixt pain and pain,
Yet life is long, it shall hap again,
Ere the dark night closes o’er us.
C-6. “Hapless Love” ( Haec: Why do you sadly go alone / O fair friend? )
Published Good Words, April, 1869, and privately printed 1876. Included in CW, XXIV, 347-51. According to May Morris, taken from an early draft of “Cupid and Psyche” (CW, IX, xxix-xxx) This doesn’t fit the poem, however, which is another instance of a love trilogy with two speakers (Hic and Ille) in which the speaker laments that his loved one has chosen another.
[p. 347]
HIC
Why do you sadly go alone,
O fair friend? Are your pigeons flown,
Or has the thunder killed your bees,
Or he-goats barked your apple-trees?
Or has the red-eared bull gone mad,
Or the mead turned from good to bad?
Or did you find the merchant lied
About the gay cloth scarlet-dyed?
And did he sell you brass for gold,
Or is there murrain in the fold?
ILLE
Nay, no such thing has come to me.
In bird and beast and field and tree,
And all the things that make my store,
Am I as rich as e’er before;
And no beguilers have I known
But Love and Death; and Love is gone,
Therefore am I far more than sad,
And no more know good things from bad.
HIC
Woe worth the while! Yet coming days
May bring another, good to praise.
ILLE
Nay, never will I love again,
For loving is but joyful pain
If all be at its very best;
A rose-hung bower of all unrest;
But when at last things go awry,
What tongue can tell its misery?
And soon or late shall this befall –
The Gods send death upon us all.
[p. 348]
HIC
Nay, then, but tell me how she died,
And how it did to thee betide
To love her; for the wise men say
To talk of grief drives grief away.
ILLE
Alas, O friend, it happed to me
To see her passing daintily
Before my homestead day by day –
Would she had gone some other way!
For one day, as she rested there
Beneath the long-leaved chestnuts fair,
In very midst of mid-day heat,
I cast myself before her feet,
And prayed for pity and for love.
How could I dream that words could move
A woman? Soft she looked at me:
“Thou sayest that I a queen should be,”
She answered with a gathering smile;
“Well, I will wait a little while;
Perchance the Gods thy will have heard.”
And even with that latest word,
The clash of arms we heard anigh;
And from the wood rode presently
A fair knight well apparelled.
And even as she turned her head,
He shortened rein, and cried aloud:
“O beautiful, among the crowd
Of queens thou art the queen of all!”
But when she let her eyelids fall,
And blushed for pleasure and for shame,
Then quickly to her feet he came,
And said, “Thou shalt be queen indeed;
For many a man this day shall bleed
[p. 349] Because of me, and leave me king
Ere noontide fall to evening.”
Then on his horse he set the maid
Before him, and no word she said
Clear unto me, but murmuring
Beneath her breath some gentle thing,
She clung unto him lovingly;
Nor took they any heed of me.
Through shade and sunlight on they rode
But ‘neath the green boughs I abode,
Nor noted aught that might betide.
The sun waned and the shade spread wide;
The birds came twittering overhead;
But there I lay as one long dead.
But ere the sunset, came a rout
Of men-at-arms with song and shout,
And bands of lusty archers tall,
And spearmen marching like a wall,
Their banners hanging heavily,
That no man might their blazon see;
And ere their last noise died away,
I heard the clamour of the fray
That swelled and died and rose again;
Yet still I brooded o’er my pain
Until the red sun nigh was set,
And then methought I e’en might get
The rest I sought, nor wake forlorn
Midst fellow-men the morrow morn;
So forth I went unto the field,
One man without a sowrd or shield.
But none was there to give me rest,
Tried was it who was worst and best,
And slain men lay on every side;
For flight and chase were turned aside,
[p. 350] And all men got on toward the sea.
But as I went right heavily
I saw how close beside the way
Over a knight a woman lay
Lamenting, and I knew in sooth
My love, and drew a-near for ruth.
There lay the knight who would be king
Dead slain before the evening,
And ever my love cried out and said,
“O sweet, in one hour art thou dead
And I am but a maiden still!
The Gods this day have had their will
Of thee and me; whom all these years
They kept apart: that now with tears
And blood and bitter misery
Our parting and our death might be.”
Then did she rise and look around,
And took his drawn sword from the ground
And on its bitter point she fell –
No more, no more, O friend, to tell!
No more about my life, O friend!
One course it shall have to the end.
O Love, come from the shadowy shore,
And by my homestead as before
Go by with sunlight on thy feet!
Come back, if but to mock me, sweet!
HIC
O fool! what love of thine was this,
Who never gave thee any kiss,
Nor would have wept if thou hadst died?
Go now, behold the world is wide:
Soon shalt thou find some dainty maid
To sit with in thy chestnut shade,
[f. 351] To rear fair children up for thee,
As those few days pass silently,
Uncounted, that may yet remain
‘Twixt thee and that last certain pain.
ILLE
Art thou a God? Nay, if thou wert,
Wouldst thou belike know of my hurt,
And what might sting and what might heal?
The world goes by ‘twixt woe and weal
And heeds me not; I sit apart
Amid old memories. To my heart
My love and sorrow must I press;
It knoweth its own bitterness.
C-7. Love Is Enough
Published 1872: Ellis and White. Included in CW, IX 1-89. Several autograph drafts are in HM 6422.
C-8. French Noel: Masters in This Hall ( Masters in this Hall /Hear ye news today )
Published AWS, I 532-34. Printed in Collection of Ancient Christmas Carols, arr. Edmund Spedding, 1860, where it was titled, “French Noel: Masters in this Hall.” Probably a translation.
Masters in this Hall
Hear ye news to-day
Brought from over sea,
And ever I you pray:
Nowell! Nowell! Nowell! Nowell sing we clear
Holpen are all folk on earth, Born is God's Son so dear:
Nowell! Nowell! Nowell! Nowell sing we loud!
God to-day hath poor folk rais'd, And cast down the proud.
Going over the hills,
Though the milk-white snow,
Heard I ewes bleat
While the wind did blow.
Nowell! etc.
Shepherds many an one
Sat among the sheep,
No man spake more word
Than they had been asleep.
Nowell! etc.
Quoth I, 'Fellows mine,
Why this guise sit ye?
Making but dull cheer,
Shepherds though ye be?'
Nowell! etc.
'Shepherds should of right
Leap and dance and sing;
Thus to see ye sit
Is a right strange thing.'
Nowell! etc.
Quote these fellows then,
'To Bethlem Town we go,
To see a mighty Lord
Lie in manger low.'
Nowell! etc.
'How name ye this Lord
Shepherds' then said I,
'Very God,' they said,
'Come from heaven high.'
Nowell! etc.
Then to Bethlem Town
We went two and two
And in a sorry place
Heard the oxen low.
Nowell! etc.
Therein did we see
A sweet and goodly May
And a fair old man,
Uopn the straw she lay.
Nowell! etc.
And a little Child
On Her arm had She
'Wot yet Who this is?'
Said the hinds to me.
Nowell! etc.
Ox and ass Him know
Kneeling on their knee,
Wondrous joy had I
This little Babe to see,
Nowell! etc.
That is Christ the Lord,
Masters be ye glad!
Christmas is come in,
And no folk should be sad.
Nowell! etc.
C-9. Song for Orpheus: “O love, love, love, folk told me thou wert dead”
Published AWS, I, 534-35. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,298B, ff. 46-47.
AWS
[p. 534]
Song for Orpheus
O LOVE, love, love, folk told me thou were dead
And O my folly! I believed their tale,
And I have gone about with hanging head
And found no place in hill, or wood, or vale
Lonely enough that thee I might bewail;
All dead things heard my breath and gazed and moved
And cried, O sorrow, sorrow unbeloved!
The wood laid hand upon me when I screamed,
The grass clung round about my heavy feet,
The cruel sun upon my hot head streamed,
The heavy circling air my face did meet,
In measured cadence did the world’s pulse beat
About my ears and wheresoe’er I moved
Cried sorrow, sorrow, sorrow unbeloved.
I knew not what I said, for “dead” I cried
And when shall I forget and all things cease?
Ah fool! for rather nothing at that tide
Did I remember and no dream brought ease.
No dream of all the kisses and the peace
Yea, I was dead, though on the earth I moved
O sorrow, sorrow, sorrow unbeloved.
[535]
But now perchance, perchance, O Love, I live,
For all around me in the world dead now;
All unregarded [now] and meet to give
Pleasure or pain from out its painted show,
And clearer now the dreams of thee do grow
When o’er thy face, my love, my loved lips moved:
O sorrow, sorrow, sorrow unbeloved.
Perhchance I live, and certainly thou livest
And must I ever then be left alone
While thou new joy to unseen people givest?
O strange, O strange if thou so hard art grown
That thou mayst sit apart and hear my moan:
Once was thine heart not all so hardly moved.
O sorrow, sorrow, sorrow unbeloved:
Sweet solace, lovely sorrow well-beloved.
C-10. Song for Orpheus: “O hollow image of the very death”
Published AWS, I, 535-36. Copyist’s version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,28B, f. 49.
AWS
[p. 535]
Song for Orpheus
O hollow image of the very death!
Despite of what the dull void threateneth
Despite the dull curse that thy silence saith
My feet are on the way to meet my love!
O eyeless thing! the night is dark about,
The hounds of hard-lipped fear are loosed and out,
Low hangs the sky above the dull earth’s doubt.
I tremble too, but hope my heart doth move.
I know thee! when the clover flowers did pine,
They set thee here, cold thing to be a sign;
Beneath thee lay all life that once was mine:
O tired feet, long is the way to meet my love.
They lied, tomb of my love, and made thee lie.
Harken, harp-strings’ clear voice her sweet name cry,
O me Eurydice: and no reply
Unto the heart of hope my heart to move.
[536]
Nay, nay, thou art not God’s abiding place,
And with none else but God now dwells that face
That gave me once clear nights and shadowy days.
Be patient, feet, scarce time to meet my love.
And yet strangely, O thou lie, thou holdest me,
And with strained eyes I stare as though to see
Through thy dull void the lips once laid on me
Speak midst the silence, love, my heart to move.
C-11. Song for Cupid and Psyche (two voices, Haec and Ille) ( Haec: O love, in songs thou lovest me, )
Published AWS, I, 537-38.
[537]
Song for Cupid and Psyche
HAEC
O love, in songs thou lovest me,
For love of me brave knight do flee
Before the peril of thy spear;
Why doest thou leave me sighing here?
ILLE
The last time that I saw thee, love,
Across the throne-room didst thou move
Follwoing the footsteps of the Queen,
In dainty clinging gown of green
Girt up above your gold-shod feet:
Alas so quick you vanished, sweet,
I scarce had time to cry, before
The King had called me from the door.
And where then shall I seek thou [thee] now?
Sitting with crown upon thy brow;
Beside some mighty conquering King,
Or, with Diana wandering
Through many an untrodden glade,
Or naked by a river laid?
Where never any man has been,
By Naiads is thy body seen,
Or in some garden of a town,
[537] Where the bewildered thrushes brown
Sing doubtfully between the walls
And drowsily the fountain falls,
There, crowned with flowers sittest thou,
Blushing with love from chin to brow,
Whilst thy fair lover sings a song
Of joy and passion, death and wrong.
Alas wherever thou mayst be
A long way off thou art from me;
Unknown, unmeasured is the way
That leads to thee, O Love, to-day.
HAEC
Alas! I would I saw thee, sweet,
Here am I helpless in the street,
Weeping for what has past away;
And now to-morrow will they say
When by some tree they find me dead,
'Behold now, if her lips were red
And if she were in seemly weed
A lovely things she were indeed.'
ILLE
O who art thou that standest there,
In rent gown but so passing fair,
Unshod, but with such lovely feet,
O art thou not my only sweet?
HAEC
Alas I am a wretch to-day,
Not her who in thine arms once lay,
For ill dawn followed that sweet night
And I was shamed in all men's sight;
Yet in thine arms now let me lie
Since now is come the time to die.
ILLE
Lie there and weep, O Love, awhile,
But soon lift up thy head and smile
Nor weep when mine own eyes are dry,
For neither is it time to die.
HAEC
Then canst thou find some lonely isle
Where we may live a little while
Where I may soon forget my wrong
And all these evil folk and strong?
ILLE
Yes such a place indeed there is
Where we may live long time in Bliss;
Thitherward when the sun gets low
Adown the river will we go
Until we come unto the sea
That shall be kind to thee and me,
Until unto a land we come
That is indeed my very home
Where dwells my father the great King
Having no need of anything
But thee and me that we may sit
Before his face and gladden it.
C-12. “The Wanderers,” first version. ( Oho! Oho! Whence come ye, Sirs, /Drifted to usward in such guise, )
Published CW, XXIV, 87-170. Autograph early version in B. L. Add. Ms. 45,305, ff. 9-73. Later version autograph is in B. L. Add. Ms. 37,499, f. 2v-118. See also List of Earthly Paradise drafts.
C-13. “The Story of Aristomenes” ( Nigh twenty years had the Messenian folk / Striven to free them from the Spartan yoke )
A portion, “The First Foray of Aristomenes,” was published in the Athenaeum, May 13th, 1876. Published CW, XXIV, 171-238. B. L. Add. Ms. 45,308, ff. 58-79 first draft, begun on June 25th, 1870; ff. 80-154 typed version with very few corrections. A partial draft is in the Humanities Research Center, University of Texas (Ms. File, [Morris, W.], Works B). An unused Earthly Paradise tale. See also checklist for Earthly Paradise drafts.
C-14. “The Story of Orpheus and Eurydice” ( Down in the south Laconian country-side / About mount Tenarus, a wood spreads wide )
Published in CW, XXIV, 239-80. An early autograph draft is in B.
L. Add. Ms. 45,308, ff. 1- 11; ff. 12-55 contains a good draft with a few
corrections. Copyist’s versions of several songs appear in B. L. Add. Ms.
45,298b, ff. 31-49.
“Meeting in Winter” had appeared in the English Illustrated Magazine,
March, 1884, 339-40. HM 6427, f. 57 is a copy of the English Illustrated
Magazine version, prepared for the printer of Poems By the Way. “From
the Upland to the Sea” appears in HM 6427, ff. 6-7. The manuscript is taken
from a draft of Orpheus, with 4 lines added to the opening section.
See also songs from Orpheus, B3-7 and C9-10.
C-15. “Meeting in Winter” ( Winter in the world it is / Round about the unhoped kiss )
A song from Orpheus, included in The Book of Verse, 1870, 28. It was published in The English Illustrated Magazine, March, 1884, 339-40 and in CW, IX, Poems by the Way, 93, as the first poem.
Autograph manuscript in HM 6427, ff. 6 and 7; pen on white ruled paper with some corrections and pencil additions taken from a draft of Orpheus, with connective portions crossed out. Title added, "From the Upland to the Sea."
Book of Verse, 1870
[p. 28]
Meeting in Winter
Winter in the world it is
Round about the unhoped kiss
Whose shadow I have long moaned oer
Round about the longing sore,
That the touch of thee shall turn
Into joy too deep to burn.
Round thine eyes and round thy mouth
Passeth no murmur of the south
When my lips a little while
Leave thy quivering tender smile,
As we twain, hand touching hand,
Once again together stand.
Sweet is that as all is sweet,
For the white drift shalt thou meet
Kind and cold-cheeked, and mine own,
Wrapped about with deep-furred gown
In the broad-wheeled chariot;
Then the north shall spare us not,
The wide-reaching waste of snow
Wilder, lonelier yet shall grow
As the reddened sun falls down.
[p. 29]
But the warders of the town,
When they flash the torches out
Oe’r the snow amid their doubt,
And their eyes at last behold
Thy red-litten hair of gold,
Shall they open, or in fear
Cry; Alas, what cometh here?
Whence hath come this heavenly one,
To tell of all the world undone?
They shall open and we shall see
The long street litten scantily
By the stream of light before
The guest-halls half open door,
And our horses bells shall cease
As we gain the place of peace:
Thou shalt tremble, as at last
The worn threshold is o’erpast,
And the fire-light blindeth thee;
Trembling shalt thou cling to me
As the sleepy merchants stare
At thy cold hands, slim and fair,
Thy soft eyes and happy lips
Worth all lading of all ships
[p. 30]
O my love, how oversweet
That first kissing of thy feet,
When the fire is sunk alow,
And the hall made empty now
Groweth solmn dim and vast!
O my love, the night shall last
Longer than men tell thereof
Laden with our lonely love!
HM 6427, ff. 6 and 7, “From the Upland to the Sea”
[f. 6]
From the Upland to the Sea
Shall we wake one morn of spring
Glad at heart of everything
Yet pensive with the thought of eve—
Then the white house shall we leave
Wandering down among the meads
Till our very joyance needs
Rest at last; till we shall come
To that Sun-Gods lonely home,
Lonely on the hill-side freay
Whence the sheep have gone away;
Lonely till the feast-time is,
When with prayer and praise of bliss
Thither comes the countryside.
There awhile shall we abide,
Sitting low down in the porch
By that image with the torch:
Thy one white hand laid upon
The black pillar that was won
From the fair off Indian mine;
And my hand nigh touching thine
But not touching: and thy gown
Fair with spring flowers cast adown
From thy bosom and thy brow—
There the southwest wind shall blow
Through thine hair to reach my cheek,
As thou sittest nor mayst speak,
Nor mayst move the hand I kiss
For the very depth of bliss;
Nay nor turn thine eyes to me.
Then desire of the great sea
Nigh enow, but all unheard
[f. 7]
In the hearts of us is stirred,
And we rise, we twain at last
And the daffodil down-cast
Feel thy feet and we are gone
From the lonely suncrowned one.
Then the meads fade at our back,
And the spring day ’gins to lack
The fresh hope that once it had;
But we twain grow yet more glad,
And apart no more may go
When the grassy slope and low
Dieth in the kingly sand:
Then we wander hand in hand
By the edges of the sea,
And I weary more for thee
Than if far apart we were
With a space of desert drear
Twixt thy lips and mine O love!
--Ah my joy my joy thereof!
C-16. “The Wooing of Swanhild” ( A king of the Goths there was as tells my tale / Men called Hermenaric, a man of might )
Published CW, XXIV, 281-315. B. L. Add. Ms. 45,308, ff. 156-78, rough draft and better copy; Morris autograph. Another unpublished Earthly Paradise tale, which May Morris believed contemporaneous with the later Earthly Paradise stories (CW, IX, 149). See also checklist of Earthly Paradise drafts.
C-17. A Garden By the Sea” ( I know a little garden-close / Set thick with
lily and red rose, )
Copied by Georgiana Burne-Jones in HM 6427, ff. 75-76; her handwriting is characterized by the older form of the double s, in pencil on white ruled paper.
Originally included in The Life and Death of Jason, Bk. 4, CW, II, 69-70, with change in the 3rd verse. Also included separately in the Book of Verse, 1870, 31-32, and published in Poems By the Way (CW, IX, 149).
HM 6427 [f. 75]
A Garden by the Sea.
I know a little garden-close,
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy morn to dewy night
And have one with me wandering
And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillared house is there,
And though the apple-boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God
Her feet upon the green grass trod
And I beheld them as before
There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the close two fair streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar.
Drawn down unto the restless sea:
Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no lea,
Dark shore no ship has ever seen
Tormented by the billows green
Whose murmur comes unceasingly
Unto the place for which I cry.
For which I cry both day and night,
For which I let slip all delight,
Whereby I grow both deaf and blind,
[f. 76]
Careless to win, unskilled to find,
And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am and weak,
Still have I left a little breath
To seek within the jaws of death
An entrance to that happy place.
To seek the unforgotten face,
Once seen once kissed, once reft from me
Anigh the murmuring of the sea.
[in Sidney Cockerell’s handwriting] Copied by Lady Burne Jones.
Book of Verse, 1870
[p. 31]
C17 A Garden by the Sea
I know a little garden close,
Set thick with lily and red rose
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy morn to dewy night
And have one with me wandering
And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillared house is there
And though the apple-boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God
Her feet upon the green grass trod
And I beheld them as before.
There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the close two fair streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar
Drawn down unto the restless sea:
Dark hills whose heath-boom feeds no bee,
Dark shore no ship has ever seen,
Tormented by the billows green
Whose murmur comes unceasingly
Unto the place for which I cry
For which I cry both day and night,
[32]
For which I let slip all delight,
Whereby I grow both deaf and blind,
Careless t win, unskilled to find,
And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am and weak
Still have I left a little breath
To seek within the jaws of death
An entrance to that happy place,
To seek the unforgotten face,
Once seen once kissed, once reft from me
Anigh the murmuring of the sea.
C-18. “In Arthur’s House” ( In Arthur’s house whilome was I / When happily the time went by )
Published CW, XXIV, 316-28. B. L. Add, Ms. 45,308, ff. 180-94,
autograph drafts.
Unfinished, written about 1865. See Karl Litzenberg, “Tyrfing Into Excalibur?
A Note on William Morris’ Unfinished Poem, ‘In Arthur’s House’,” Scandinavian
Studies, 15 (1938-1939): 81-83. May Morris feels this may have been a
fragment of one of the projected Earthly Paradise stories (CW,
XXIV, xxxi).
In Arthur’s House
In Arthur’s house whileome was I
When happily the time went by
In midmost glory of his days.
He held his court then in a place
Whereof ye shall not find the name
In any story of his fame:
Caerliel good sooth men called it not,
Nor London Town, nor Camelot;
Yet therein had we bliss enow.
–Ah, far off was the overthrow
Of all that Britain praised and loved;
And though among us lightly moved
A love that could but lead to death,
Smooth-skinned he seemed, of rosy breath,
A fear to sting a lady’s lip,
No ruin of goodly fellowship,
No shame and death of all things good.
Forgive the old carle’s babbling mood;
As here I sit grey-haired and old,
My life gone as a story told,
Ye bid me tell a story too;
And then the evil days and few,
That yet were overlong for me
Rise up so clear I may not see
The pictures of my minstrel lore.
Well hearken! on a day of yore
From prime of morn the court did ride
Amidmost of the summertide
To search the dwellings of the deer
Until the heat of noon was near;
Then slackening speed awhile they went
Adown a ragged thorn-bushed bent
At whose feet grew a tangled wood
Of oak and holly nowise good:
But therethrough with some pain indeed
And rending of the ladies’ weed
They won at last, and after found
A space of green-sward grown around
By oak and holly set full close;
And in the midst of it arose
Two goodly sycamores that made
A wide and little sun-pierced shade
About their high boles straight and green:
A fount was new-born there-between,
And running on as clear as glass,
Flowed winding on amid the grass
Until the thick wood swallowed it.
A place for happy folk to sit
While the hot day grew hotter still
Till eve began to work his will.
–So might those happy people think
Who grudged to see the red sun sink
And end another day of bliss
Although no joy tomorn should miss–
They laughed for joy as they drew nigh
The shade and fount: but lo, thereby
A man beside the fountain laid
The while his horse ‘twixt sun and shade
Cropped the sweet grass: but little care
Had these of guile or giant’s lair,
And scarce a foot before the Queen
Rode Gawain o’er the daisied green
To see what man his pleasure took;
Who rose up in meanwhile and shook
His tangled hair aback, as one
Who e’en but now his sleep hath done.
Rough-head and yellow-haired was he
Great-eyed, as folk have told to me,
And big and stout enow of limb:
As one who thinks no harm he smiled,
And cried out: “Well met in the wild,
Fair King and Queen; and ye withal
Sweet dames and damsels! Well befal
This day, whereon I see thee nigh,
O Lancelot, before I die!
And surely shall my heart rejoice
Sir Gawain, when I hear thy voice!”
Then Lancelot laughed: “Thou knowest us then
Full well among a man men?”
“As quoth the lion to the mouse,”
The man said; “in King Arthur’s House
Men are not names of men alone,
But coffers rather of deeds done.”
The Queen smiled blithe at heart, and spake:
“Hast thou done deeds for ladies’ sake?”
“Nay dame,” he said, “I am but young;
A little have I lived and sung
And seen thy face this happy noon.”
The King said: “May we hearken soon
Some merry tale of thee? for I
Am skilled to know men low and high
And deem thee neither churl nor fool.”
Said he, “My fathers went to school
Where folk are taught a many things,
But not by bliss: men called them kings
In days when kings were near to seek;
But as a long thread waxeth weak,
So is it with our house; and now
I wend me home from oaken bough
Unto a stead where roof and wall
Shall not have over far to fall
When their last day comes.”
As he spake
He reddened: “Nathless for their sake,
Whom the world loved once, mock not me
O King, if thence I bring to thee
A morsel and a draught of wine,
Though nothing king-like here thou dine.”
Of some kind word King Arthur thought,
But ere he spake the woodman caught
His forest-nag and leapt thereon,
And through the tangled brake was gone.
Then leapt the King down, glad at heart,
Thinking, This day shall not depart
Without some voice from days that were;
And lightly leapt down Guenevere,
And man and maid lay presently
Neath the bee-laden branches high,
And sweet the scent of trodden grass
Amid the blossoms’ perfume was.
There long they lay, and little spake,
As folk right loth the calm to break;
Till lo upon the forest-breeze
A noise of folk, and from the trees
They came: the first-seen forester,
A grizzled carle in such-like gear,
And then two maidens poorly clad
Though each a silver chaplet had
And round her neck a golden chain:
And last two varlets led a wain
Drawn by white oxen well bedight
With oaken boughs and lilies white;
Therein there lay a cask of wine
And baskets piled with bread full fine,
And flesh of hart and roe and hare;
And in the midst upon a chair
Done over with a cloth of gold
There sat a man exceeding old
With long white locks: and clad was he
No other than his company
Save that a golden crown he bore
Full fairly fashioned as of yore,
And with a sword was girt about
Such as few folk will see I doubt.
Right great it was: the scabbard thin
Was fashioned of a serpent’s skin,
In every scale a stone of worth:
Of tooth of sea-lion of the north
The cross was, and the blood-boot stone
That heals the hurt of the blade hath done
Hung down therefrom in silken purse:
The ruddy kin of Niblung’s curse
O’er tresses of a sea-wife’s hair
Was wrapped about the handle fair;
And last a marvellous sapphire stone
Amidst of the great pommel shone,
A blue flame in the forest green.
And Arthur deemed he ne’er had seen
So fair a sword: nay not when he
The wonder of the land-locked sea
Drew from the stone that Christmas-tide.
Now forth the forest youth did ride,
Leapt down beside the King, and spake:
“King Arthur for thy greatness’ sake
My grandsire comes to look on thee;
My father standeth here by me;
These maidens are my sisters twain;
My brethren draw out from the wain
Somewhat thy woodland sheer to mend.”
Thereat his sire the knee did bend
Before the King, who o’er the brown
Rough sleeve of the man’s homespun gown
Beheld a goodly golden ring:
And fell to greater marvelling
When he beheld how fine and fair
The woodman’s kneeling sisters were.
And all folk thereby deemed in sooth
That (save indeed the first seen youth)
These folk were nobler e’en than those
Of Arthur’s wonder of a house.
But now the elder drew anigh,
By half a head was he more high
Than Arthur or than Lancelot,
Nor had eld bent him: he kneeled not
Before the King, but smiling took
His hands in hands that nowise shook;
And the King joyed as he who sees
One of his fathers’ images
Stand glad before him in a dream.
Then down beside the bubbling stream
They sat together, and the King
Was loth to fall a questioning;
So first the elder spake and said:
“It joys me of thy goodlihead
O great king of our land; and though
Our blood within thee doth not flow,
And I who was a king of yore
May scarcely kneel thy feet before,
Yet do I deem thy right the best
Of all the kings who rule the West.
I love thy name and fame: behold,
King Arthur, I am grown so old
In guilelessness, the Gods have sent,
Be I content or uncontent,
That I may see as through a haze
The lives and deeds of days to come:
I laugh for some, I weep for some –
I neither laugh nor weep for thee,
But trembling through the clouds I see
Thy life and glory to the end;
And how the sweet and bitter blend
Within the cup that thou must drink.
Good is it that thou shalt not shrink
From either: that the afterdays
Shall still win glory from thy praise
And scarce believe thee laid asleep
When o’er thy deeds the days lie deep.”
He ceased but his old lips moved still,
As though they would the tale fulfil
His heart kept secret: Arthur’s eyes
Gleamed with the pride that needs would rise
Up from his heart, and low he said:
“I know the living by the dead
I know the future by the past.”
Wise eyes and kind the elder cast
Upon him; while a nameless fear
Smote to the heart of Guenevere,
And, fainting there, was turned to love:
And thence a nameless pain did move
The noble heart of Lancelot,
The store of longing unforgot.
–And set a little moved the sun
And noon began, and noon was done.
But as the elder’s grey eyes turned
On Guenevere’s, her sweet face burned
With a sweet shame; as though she knew
He read her story through and through.
Kindly he looked on her and said:
“O Queen, the chief of goodlihead,
Be blithe and glad this day at least
When in my fathers’ house ye feast:
For surely in their ancient hall
Ye sit now: look, there went the wall
Where yon turf ridge runs west-away:
Time was I heard my grand-dame say
She saw this stream run bubbling down
The hall-floor shut in trench of stone;
Therein she washed her father’s cup
That last ever e’er the fire went up
O’er ridge and rafter she passed
Betwixt t