Complete Works of William Morris, page 313
Their howling almost blinded me;
Yet for all that I was not bent
By any shame. Hard by, the sea
Made a noise like the aspens where
We did that wrong, but now the place
Is very pleasant, and the air
Blows cool on any passer’s face.
And all the wrong is gather’d now
Into the circle of these lists:
Yea, howl out, butchers! tell me how
His hands were cut off at the wrists;
And how Lord Roger bore his face
A league above his spear-point, high
Above the owls, to that strong place
Among the waters; yea, yea, cry:
What a brave champion we have got!
Sir Oliver, the flower of all
The Hainault knights! The day being hot,
He sat beneath a broad white pall,
White linen over all his steel;
What a good knight he look’d! his sword
Laid thwart his knees; he liked to feel
Its steadfast edge clear as his word.
And he look’d solemn; how his love
Smiled whitely on him, sick with fear!
How all the ladies up above
Twisted their pretty hands! so near
The fighting was: Ellayne! Ellayne!
They cannot love like you can, who
Would burn your hands off, if that pain
Could win a kiss; am I not true
To you for ever? therefore I
Do not fear death or anything;
If I should limp home wounded, why,
While I lay sick you would but sing,
And soothe me into quiet sleep.
If they spat on the recreant knight,
Threw stones at him, and cursed him deep,
Why then: what then? your hand would light
So gently on his drawn-up face,
And you would kiss him, and in soft
Cool scented clothes would lap him, pace
The quiet room and weep oft, oft
Would turn and smile, and brush his cheek
With your sweet chin and mouth; and in
The order’d garden you would seek
The biggest roses: any sin.
And these say: No more now my knight,
Or God’s knight any longer: you,
Being than they so much more white,
So much more pure and good and true,
Will cling to me for ever; there,
Is not that wrong turn’d right at last
Through all these years, and I wash’d clean?
Say, yea, Ellayne; the time is past,
Since on that Christmas-day last year
Up to your feet the fire crept,
And the smoke through the brown leaves sere
Blinded your dear eyes that you wept;
Was it not I that caught you then,
And kiss’d you on the saddle-bow?
Did not the blue owl mark the men
Whose spears stood like the corn a-row?
This Oliver is a right good knight,
And must needs beat me, as I fear,
Unless I catch him in the fight,
My father’s crafty way: John, here!
Bring up the men from the south gate,
To help me if I fall or win,
For even if I beat, their hate
Will grow to more than this mere grin.
THE LITTLE TOWER
Up and away through the drifting rain!
Let us ride to the Little Tower again,
Up and away from the council board!
Do on the hauberk, gird on the sword.
The king is blind with gnashing his teeth,
Change gilded scabbard to leather sheath:
Though our arms are wet with the slanting rain,
This is joy to ride to my love again:
I laugh in his face when he bids me yield;
Who knows one field from the other field,
For the grey rain driveth all astray?
Which way through the floods, good carle, I pray
The left side yet! the left side yet!
Till your hand strikes on the bridge parapet.
Yea so: the causeway holdeth good
Under the water? Hard as wood,
Right away to the uplands; speed, good knight!
Seven hours yet before the light.
Shake the wet off on the upland road;
My tabard has grown a heavy load.
What matter? up and down hill after hill;
Dead grey night for five hours still.
The hill-road droppeth lower again,
Lower, down to the poplar plain.
No furlong farther for us to-night,
The Little Tower draweth in sight;
They are ringing the bells, and the torches glare,
Therefore the roofs of wet slate stare.
There she stands, and her yellow hair slantingly
Drifts the same way that the rain goes by.
Who will be faithful to us to-day,
With little but hard glaive-strokes for pay?
The grim king fumes at the council-board:
Three more days, and then the sword;
Three more days, and my sword through his head;
And above his white brows, pale and dead,
A paper crown on the top of the spire;
And for her the stake and the witches’ fire.
Therefore though it be long ere day,
Take axe and pick and spade, I pray.
Break the dams down all over the plain:
God send us three more days such rain!
Block all the upland roads with trees;
The Little Tower with no great ease
Is won, I warrant; bid them bring
Much sheep and oxen, everything
The spits are wont to turn with; wine
And wheaten bread, that we may dine
In plenty each day of the siege.
Good friends, ye know me no hard liege;
My lady is right fair, see ye!
Pray God to keep you frank and free.
Love Isabeau, keep goodly cheer;
The Little Tower will stand well here
Many a year when we are dead,
And over it our green and red,
Barred with the Lady’s golden head,
From mere old age when we are dead.
THE SAILING OF THE SWORD
Across the empty garden-beds,
When the Sword went out to sea,
I scarcely saw my sisters’ heads
Bowed each beside a tree.
I could not see the castle leads,
When the Sword went out to sea,
Alicia wore a scarlet gown,
When the Sword went out to sea,
But Ursula’s was russet brown:
For the mist we could not see
The scarlet roofs of the good town,
When the Sword went out to sea.
Green holly in Alicia’s hand,
When the Sword went out to sea;
With sere oak-leaves did Ursula stand;
O! yet alas for me!
I did but bear a peel’d white wand,
When the Sword went out to sea.
O, russet brown and scarlet bright,
When the Sword went out to sea,
My sisters wore; I wore but white:
Red, brown, and white, are three;
Three damozels; each had a knight,
When the Sword went out to sea.
Sir Robert shouted loud, and said:
When the Sword went out to sea,
Alicia, while I see thy head,
What shall I bring for thee?
O, my sweet Lord, a ruby red:
The Sword went out to sea.
Sir Miles said, while the sails hung down,
When the Sword went out to sea,
O, Ursula! while I see the town,
What shall I bring for thee?
Dear knight, bring back a falcon brown:
The Sword went out to sea.
But my Roland, no word he said
When the Sword went out to sea,
But only turn’d away his head;
A quick shriek came from me:
Come back, dear lord, to your white maid.
The Sword went out to sea.
The hot sun bit the garden-beds
When the Sword came back from sea;
Beneath an apple-tree our heads
Stretched out toward the sea;
Grey gleam’d the thirsty castle-leads,
When the Sword came back from sea.
Lord Robert brought a ruby red,
When the Sword came back from sea;
He kissed Alicia on the head:
I am come back to thee;
’Tis time, sweet love, that we were wed,
Now the Sword is back from sea!
Sir Miles he bore a falcon brown,
When the Sword came back from sea;
His arms went round tall Ursula’s gown:
What joy, O love, but thee?
Let us be wed in the good town,
Now the Sword is back from sea!
My heart grew sick, no more afraid,
When the Sword came back from sea;
Upon the deck a tall white maid
Sat on Lord Roland’s knee;
His chin was press’d upon her head,
When the Sword came back from sea!
SPELL-BOUND
How weary is it none can tell,
How dismally the days go by!
I hear the tinkling of the bell,
I see the cross against the sky.
The year wears round to Autumn-tide,
Yet comes no reaper to the corn;
The golden land is like a bride
When first she knows herself forlorn;
She sits and weeps with all her hair
Laid downward over tender hands;
For stainèd silk she hath no care,
No care for broken ivory wands;
The silver cups beside her stand;
The golden stars on the blue roof
Yet glitter, though against her hand
His cold sword presses for a proof
He is not dead, but gone away.
How many hours did she wait
For me, I wonder? Till the day
Had faded wholly, and the gate
Clanged to behind returning knights?
I wonder did she raise her head
And go away, fleeing the lights;
And lay the samite on her bed,
The wedding samite strewn with pearls:
Then sit with hands laid on her knees,
Shuddering at half-heard sound of girls
That chatter outside in the breeze?
I wonder did her poor heart throb
At distant tramp of coming knight?
How often did the choking sob
Raise up her head and lips? The light,
Did it come on her unawares,
And drag her sternly down before
People who loved her not? in prayers
Did she say one name and no more?
And once, all songs they ever sung,
All tales they ever told to me,
This only burden through them rung:
O golden love that waitest me!
The days pass on, pass on apace,
Sometimes I have a little rest
In fairest dreams, when on thy face
My lips lie, or thy hands are prest
About my forehead, and thy lips
Draw near and nearer to mine own;
But when the vision from me slips,
In colourless dawn I lie and moan,
And wander forth with fever’d blood,
That makes me start at little things,
The blackbird screaming from the wood,
The sudden whirr of pheasants’ wings.
O dearest, scarcely seen by me!
But when that wild time had gone by,
And in these arms I folded thee,
Who ever thought those days could die?
Yet now I wait, and you wait too,
For what perchance may never come;
You think I have forgotten you,
That I grew tired and went home.
But what if some day as I stood
Against the wall with strainèd hands,
And turn’d my face toward the wood,
Away from all the golden lands;
And saw you come with tired feet,
And pale face thin and wan with care,
And stainèd raiment no more neat,
The white dust lying on your hair:
Then I should say, I could not come;
This land was my wide prison, dear;
I could not choose but go; at home
There is a wizard whom I fear:
He bound me round with silken chains
I could not break; he set me here
Above the golden-waving plains,
Where never reaper cometh near.
And you have brought me my good sword,
Wherewith in happy days of old
I won you well from knight and lord;
My heart upswells and I grow bold.
But I shall die unless you stand,
Half lying now, you are so weak,
Within my arms, unless your hand
Pass to and fro across my cheek.
THE WIND
Ah! no, no, it is nothing, surely nothing at all,
Only the wild-going wind round by the garden-wall,
For the dawn just now is breaking, the wind beginning to fall.
Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?
Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,
Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.
So I will sit, and think and think of the days gone by,
Never moving my chair for fear the dogs should cry,
Making no noise at all while the flambeau burns awry.
For my chair is heavy and carved, and with sweeping green behind
It is hung, and the dragons thereon grin out in the gusts of the wind;
On its folds an orange lies, with a deep gash cut in the rind.
Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?
Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,
still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.
If I move my chair it will scream, and the orange will roll out afar,
And the faint yellow juice ooze out like blood from a wizard’s jar;
And the dogs will howl for those who went last month to the war.
Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?
Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,
Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.
So I will sit and think of love that is over and past,
O, so long ago! Yes, I will be quiet at last:
Whether I like it or not, a grim half-slumber is cast
Over my worn old brains, that touches the roots of my heart,
And above my half-shut eyes, the blue roof ‘gins to part,
And show the blue spring sky, till I am ready to start
From out of the green-hung chair; but something keeps me still,
And I fall in a dream that I walk’d with her on the side of a hill,
Dotted, for was it not spring? with tufts of the daffodil.
Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?
Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,
Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.
And Margaret as she walk’d held a painted book in her hand;
Her finger kept the place; I caught her, we both did stand
Face to face, on the top of the highest hill in the land.
Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?
Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,
Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.
I held to her long bare arms, but she shudder’d away from me,
While the flush went out of her face as her head fell back on a tree,
And a spasm caught her mouth, fearful for me to see;
And still I held to her arms till her shoulder touched my mail,
Weeping she totter’d forward, so glad that I should prevail,
And her hair went over my robe, like a gold flag over a sail.
Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?
Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,
Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.
I kiss’d her hard by the ear, and she kiss’d me on the brow,
And then lay down on the grass, where the mark on the moss is now,
And spread her arms out wide while I went down below.
Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?
Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,
Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.
And then I walk’d for a space to and fro on the side of the hill,
Till I gather’d and held in my arms great sheaves of the daffodil,
And when I came again my Margaret lay there still.
I piled them high and high above her heaving breast,
How they were caught and held in her loose ungirded vest!
But one beneath her arm died, happy so to be prest!
