Complete works of willia.., p.523
Complete Works of William Morris, page 523
Long ago has he gone, nor left behind
One work of his to loose love, or to bind,
Yet tells the tale his thought in words like these
Faint as they be to match his melodies.
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 wing blew rough & strong,
And the swift steeds swept along
And the griding of the spears
Reached the hot 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 word like these.
Or before the maids that led
The white oxen sleek full fed,
When the 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
Though 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 everything,
Moaneth with about mine eyes,
This dull cage of miseries?
Slow died the sweet wail of his voice along
The dusk of the hall; an echo of his song
He deemed came back, he knew not whence or how
But there a long while stood he silent now
Amid the silence, till a sudden thought
An unseen frown unto his white brow brought
And once again he smote his harp and sang
Great words that wildly through the dread hush rang
O 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 ere while
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
O ye who ne’er were fettered, By the bonds of time and ill,
Give give, if ye are 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 & can give,
What gain is there in death, O be wise and make alive.
He ceased and listened, for he deemed a sound
Unnameable stirred the still air around
But knew not if from his own heart it was;
But into utter silence all did pass.
Whateer it might be, in a while, and he
Stood in that place a moment silently,
Then passed unto the door, and gazed about
And the same glimmering twilight was without
As in the hall, and silence as of death,
So that the very drawing of his breath,
His feet just scarcely moving gainst his will
Seemed a great sound, portentous, mid the still
Warm moveless air: till now he ‘gan to think:
“Yea, perchance death it was that I did drink,
From the crone’s cup, and this is but death’s life
Silent and lonely, yet with memory rife,
With all the pain of the old struggle left,
With all the love unsatisfied; hope reft
Away from us alone – Ah is it so
That in such wise with thee the hours do go,
And thou art lone, O love, as I am lone?
Yet if thy love for me is no more gone,
Than is my love, sure we shall meet again
To weep and smile above the tales of pain
That threatened, mocking, it would never cease.
Ah, if a word of mine might give thee peace,
Now or we meet, now while thou wanderest
Amid the languor of this dull unrest!”
And once again his hands ran oer the strings,
And once again with thought of long-past things
His heart swelled into music, and his song
Within that echoless land rang sweet and strong.
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 to day’
‘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.’
‘Corne 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
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 others 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 peach 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?
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 neer 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 drouth.
And the threshold, saw they not
Where my lips thereon were hot
Ere she came, that she might feel
As her feet there o’er did steal
Trembling sweet, and know not why,
Fluttering 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,
Een 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.
He ceased now, trembling sore, for certainly
A murmur like a gathering wind went by;
Then as it were, a strange laugh musical
But mocking, fearful, on his ears did fall.
“Yet hearken, O ye hearken, cried he then,
Yet hearkening do ye mock the woes of men?
O speak, speak, yet again O song of mine!
Wilt thou be dumb, now, when this love divine
Meeteth the very Gods naked, alone,
And unafraid as though the world were gone
Adown the void?”
Already as he spake
A step across the threshold did he take,
And with his heart a-fire and flaming eyes
He let the fountain of his song arise.
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 rye-fields outer row,
Across her white breast no more warm
Across my numbed enfolding arm
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 about her heart enwound.
Then oer the edge of earth and sky
The sun arose, and silently
Lit up the lily-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 breasts it won
And burned there till the noon was done;
Upon my head 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 bend
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;
Its end was wrought mid clam and peace
Yet mournfully did it decrease.
And if men went upon their ways
Een as in other summer days,
Surely they toiled with no glad face
Amid the bright day did they seem
To toil as in a hapless dream
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.
He ceased and once more passed the murmur by
And after it a sound as of a sigh
That sounded sweet to him, for in his heart
This seemed at last to have a little part.
Then through the dark he cried:
“May it be then
That if no more I see the sons of men
Yet even so I am not quite alone!”
Then in the air again he heard a moan,
And then a voice cried Orpheus thrice aloud
And with that sound such strange wild hopes did crowd
About him, that the very death indeed,
Whate’er that is, had well nigh been his meed,
But when his senses cleared he heard again
A voice that spake:
“O Orpheus, not in vain
Thou sayst that the world mocked thee not: and we
Unnamed, unknown, how then should we mock thee;
But how shall song move that which hath no ears
Or love the thing that nought of longing bears,
Or grief move that, which never doth behold
The world amid unnumbered griefs grown old
Yet still alive more griefs to bear and more?
But for as much as thy grief is as sore
As many are, thy will exceeding strong
Mid earthly wills, some semblance of a wrong
Done to the world thou yet from us mayst win
To satisfy thy lust; some gift wherein
Shall poison seem to lurk: this shalt thou take
And fear not for the end; if for the sake
Of that which thou hast set thine heart upon
Een such a lonely gift thou deemest well won;
But ere thou standest lone and strong, look forth
And weigh how much thy grain of woe is worth
Amid the measureless dust of woes by gone.”
Then ceased the voice, but that strong hearted one
Put back his hair to gaze, and lo, a light
Spread slowly through the dusk of that half night
Until the flowers showed bright, the last trees stood
Grey ‘gainst the blackness of the bounding wood;
And then a low and moaning wind, and then
Came and passed by the forms of sad faced men
And weary women; nor failed each to turn
Such eyes on him as into his heart did burn
An added grief: nor might he turn away,
Till as the unending flock of rain clouds grey
Oer the sea streaming did they grow to be
And each one with its unmatched misery
Unnamed, unhealed: until the dusk again
Dropped slowly down over that world of pain
And left him voiceless sightless, void of thought.
And so again the voice to him was brought;
“O Orpheus, hast thou seen and measured this,
And wilt thou wail out for a life of bliss,
And deem thyself great-hearted; knowest thou
If even those thou criedst at e’en now
Live as live happy men who die? – then pray
And gain the grace that the Gods give today!”
Thought stirred within him, but his mouth was dumb
A long time, for faint sickness still did come
Betwixt him and his prayer, until at last
From out his gasping lips a cry was cast
Forth to the dark:
“O love Eurydice!
Where then amid this mournful crowd is she:
With mine own eyes these gazed into my face
And yet I knew them not.”
Then through the place
There came a trembling, and the voice grown great
Filled all the air, and shuddering did he wait
Till he might know its meaning, and it said:
“O Orpheus, this thy love is of the dead
As well thou knowest: none shall tell thee now
Whereas she dwelleth; yet perchance, when thou
Goest to the dead land, this and a many thing
Thine eyes shall see clear – O thou tuneful king
What wilt thou have of us; speak out and pray,
Gaining the grace that the Gods give today!
But therewithal cried Orpheus eagerly;
“O ye if men should learn that one might die
And yet return, should not their grief be less
Because of hope; should not their happiness
Falter no more twixt time of longing pain
And time of gaining all that they may gain?”
Soft spake the voice; “And thou, O Orpheus then,
Wilt bear this thing alone of living men,
And as thou hithertoo hast helped them well,
Help them in this and leave a tale to tell.
For whereas neither God nor man indeed
Thou fain wouldst be yet may we grant thy need.
Great art thou, great and strong all things to bear!”
No laughter through the darkness did he hear,
Yet a sick fear possessed him, he gan quake
As the reed set amid the stream: then spake
The voice again:
“Nay be thou of good cheer
For hither soon shall come the Messenger
And speak to thee what thou mayest understand,
And give thee tidings from the unknown land.
– O glorious Orpheus, leader of the earth,
Into the paths of rest and endless mirth,
