Complete Works of William Morris, page 522
Lovely he was, well-wrought of every limb,
But white and wasted was the face of him
Beneath his golden hair, a thing to move
The best of Goddesses to ruth and love,
If she might dream a little while that fate,
Stayed by the hand of love, an hour could wait
To let her taste the fear and hope and pain,
That still we strive to think not wholly vain.
Mid winter was it, dark the full stream ran
Betwixt two shelves of ice; the sun grew wan
Already, as the promise of the day
Was marred by the long cloud-bars dull and grey
That the light frosty wind drew from the north;
From the brown brake-side peered a grey wolf forth
And snarled behind him, e’en while overhead
A raven wheeled, glad that the year was dead
And dieth not time withal, though still I strive
A little, and a little hope doth live.
But I – I shall not die, I shall not die
E’en when this hope is utterly gone by,
But, living, unconsumed by misery still,
Into a timeless changeless sea of ill,
Made but to waste my wretched soul shall float,
As from a dark stream’s mouth an unmanned boat
Floats into a windless sea fulfilled of death.”
He clenched his hands, and drew a weary breath,
And o’er the grass that through the thin dry snow
Struggled aloft, he went with footsteps slow
Until he came to the stream s shallowest place,
Then, with his sick hope quivering in his face
Crashed through the ice and splashed the ripple through
And gained the bank, and toward the dark wood drew,
Of flowers that once had known the summers breath
Was round his head, an ivory harp well strung
With golden strings about his neck there hung
Lovely the man was most well wrought of limb
But white and wasted was the face of him
Beneath his golden hair a thing to move
A very goddess with sweet ruth & love
If she might dream a little while that fate
Stayed by the hand of love an hour might wait
To let her taste the hope & fear and pain
That men on earth must think not/ we must strive to think not wholly vain)
That none in memory of aught alive
Had dared to seek, with death and hell to strive.
But he for nought that might abide him quailed,
E’en when the winter day’s sick sunlight failed
Beneath the black boughs, and the twilight dim
Betwixt the tree-trunks needs must seem to him
Gained not from day but from some strange place shed
Where day and night need not the changeless dead.
Nought living in that wood his eyes might see,
Scarce might the snow betwixt thick tree & tree
Reach the sparse herbage, or the hard brown ground:
Though the wind rose without now, no real sound
But of his hasty feet therein he heard;
Yet by the silence nowise was he feared,
For, wrapped about in grief and strong intent,
Scarcely he saw the way on which he went
Or took note of the trees, as one by one
From out the gloom his eyes were fixed upon
They grew, then met him, then were left behind
Thus darkling through the changeless woodways blind
Long time he went, till suddenly a light
Red, dusky, flickering, through the silent night
Of the moveless boughs sent a long wavering way
Changing to black and red the treetrunks grey.
No cry carne from his lips, nor did his feet
Falter one whit, but swiftlier moved to meet
The heart of the strange light, until at last
Into a treeless open space he passed,
Though what was over head he might not say,
Sky or what else; for surely the world’s day
Had scarce waned yet, yea and were it night
With neither moon or star the sky to light
Scarce had this wide-spread twilight glimmered there
To mingle with the red blaze that did flare
From out the windows of a house of stone,
White and unstained as is a wind-bleached bone
In a dry land: he looked down toward his feet,
And might not name the flowers that they did meet
Tough blossoms certainly that glare did light
Not the thin grey grass and snow dusty-white
Of the cold world without; whereby he knew
That some strange land he thus had journeyed to,
But felt no fear, nay rather hope, that strange
Should all be round him, and the changeless change
Of seasons, each slaying each, and night and day
Waxing and waning thus were passed away
So now unto the doorway of that hall
Swiftly he passed, and as his feet did fall
Upon its threshold, wild new hopes there came
Across his heart. He entered; a great flame
Shot up from floor to ceiling of that place
Reddening his raiment and his wild white face
And lighting every nook and cranny there.
A mighty had he had accounted fair
Mid the world’s sunlight with the boughs of trees
Brushing its windows in the fitful breeze;
But here, mid utter silence of all else
Save the flame’s roar, mid horror such as dwells
Amidst a city where all folk have died,
Dreadful it seemed, and even he did bide
Doubtful a little while, with eyes all dazed
As through the smokeless swirling flame he gazed;
All was of stone there, flawless smooth, and white,
Pavement and walls and roof, but for the light
That reddened it: betwixt the fire and door
A laver was there sunken in the floor
Whose moveless water mirrored the straight flame;
A brazen bowl there floated in the same,
And by the pillar that rose up anigh
A black-fleeced ram lay gasping piteously
The red blood running from his breast apace.
Now sounded a shrill voice adown the place;
“Draw nigher Orpheus, tell thy tale to me
Of the glad world unmeet for me and thee
That hast a mind the heavens and earth to move.
Tales wherein hope is told of, and sweet love,
Where each loves each in sweet and equal wise
Beneath the just Gods’ happy unseen eyes.”
Then such a laughter on his ears did fall
As made him deem that in that dreadful hall
His sin and his despair did him abide,
A thing made manifest, that ere that tide
Dimly he knew, a dream: and yet his feet
How drew him on the worst of all to meet.
But as betwixt the pillars tall he passed
Lo, nor their whiteness, nor his blackness cast
A shadow on the pavement, in despite
Of that great swirling shaft of ruddy light.
But now all fear that his great heart drew round
At the first hearing of that dreadful sound
Died clean away, as onward he did wend
And saw one sitting at the hall’s far end
On a great seat of stone, a woman, clad
In white wool raiment: in her hand she had
A rock wherefrom she span a coal-black thread;
Her face was as the face of one long dead
But for her glittering eyes, and white and long
Hung down her hair her raiments folds among.
“All hail, Worlds Hope, Worlds Love!” she cried we twain
Of such a meeting long have been most fain
Yea though thou knowest me not, yet oft indeed
Thou calledst on me in thy bitter need,
To make thy face as brass thine heart as stone –
O good it is we twain are met alone!”
Now as he drew close, therewithal it seemed
As though this too with all these things were dreamed,
And had no import: as he stood there, still
One thought one hope his wasted heart did fill,
That in such wise from out his soul did flame
That oer his cheeks a ruddy flush there carne
Mocked from her corpse-like lips by laughter low
As if his thoughts she nowise failed to know.
Then with a proud and steady gaze he cried
“Mother, all hail! for though the world be wide,
Thus have we met; I who desire, and thou
Who hidden thing and life’s end well can show!”
“Mother of nought at all,” she cried, “am I;
The love and hope that I saw wane and die,
I brought it not to birth, but in a dream
Was it made mine: the thought that once did seem
Born from my very heart – who knows, who knows,
Whence it was born, amid what fearful throes
Of Gods, to mock me as alone I sit,
Mazed twixt the rising and the end if it.
Fool of the world, thou hearkenest not to me,
Deeming thy love a part of thee to be,
Knowing it mighty, thinking that thou too
Art grown a God all marvellous things to do –
– Assay it, O thou singer, who didst move
The little hearts of men ere thou didst love,
And canst not move them more, O hot-hearted fool,
Who then as now wert but the helpless tool
Of that undying worldwide melody
Whose sweet sound mocks the vain hearts made to die.
– Thou hearkenest not – how then shall I avail
Thy vain desire? Speak, tell me of they tale!”
Indeed with wandering eyes he turned to her,
As though no meaning all her words did bear,
But when she made an end of all, he said;
“Mother, folk say thou dealest with the dead,
Thyself alive – as old as thou mayst be,
As wise by lapse of years of misery,
I, young, unwise, methinks might look upon
The eyes of those that their last rest have won
As thou thyself dost: nor more lonely grow
E’en for that sight; because within me now
Instead of lore and wisdom is there set
Desire too strong to dally with regret,
To deal with dreamy bitter-sweet half-rest;
To strive for that which wise men call the best
Forgetfulness and blotting out of day;
Too strong but as a thinnest mask to bear
Sick-hearted patience through the days to wear.
Nay I need pray thee not, I know thy thought
As thou know’st mine; I am not come for nought,
Alone of all men, to this fearful place.”
Silent awhile upon him did she gaze,
Then cried: “Nay nay thou com’st not here to strive
Save with the Gods who kill and make alive
And know not why – so even let it be,
And as I may will I give help to thee;
I, who perchance am even one of these,
And shall not die to gain a little ease.
– Yet hearken now, thou as thou standest there,
So loving and so lovesome and so fair
All music on thy lips, and in thine heart –
– More than a God in this one thing thou art,
And if love ruled the world thou too shouldst rule.
But so it is not; love is but the tool
They use to make the morning bright and fair;
Even by the silence of they dull despair
The brown breast of the thoughtless nightingale
Is filled with longings vague to tell thy tale.
Through the cold patience of thy grief forgot,
A hundred thousand springs wax bright & hot,
A hundred thousand summers bear the rose;
And with the fruitful rest thine heart did lose
A hundred thousand autumns grow o’ersweet
Before the star-crowned winters cold white feet;
While thou thyself, a waif cast forth, shalt fare
Alone, unloved thou knowest not why or where.
Come then today and strive and strive and fail,
Beat down and conquered yet of more avail,
Sweeter and fairer to the world than though
In triumph thou thy short life passedst through,
Glad every day and making others glad.”
Methinks he knew not, or for good or bad
The words she spake to him, but in his eyes
Gleamed a strange light, as he beheld her rise
And step down toward him; as a king’s eyes gleam
When from the hall forth unto battle stream
His folk foredoomed behind him, and the shout
Of foes unnumbered ringeth round about.
But now on his hot hand her hand did fall
Ice-cold, and slow she led him down the hall
Until they came unto the laver fair,
And there she bade him bide, and into the air
Departed, but returning presently
Bare store of herbs with her all strange to see,
With some whereof her dreadful hair she crowned,
And some she strewed about upon the ground,
Or cast into the water: then she took
The ram now dead, and from her long arms shook
The cumbering raiment back, and therewith strode
Unto the fire and cast therein her load,
That flesh and fell and bone the fire licked up;
Then from her girdle did she take a cup,
And filled it from that water, and then spake;
“Drink, and fear not; thine heart that so doth ache
Shall rest a while; lie down hereby, and sleep
Over the trouble of thy soul shall creep
Despite thyself: but when thou wak’st, take thou
Thine harp, if aught there be within thee now
Of melody; and in the sweetest wise
Thou mayest, sing thou of they miseries:
For doubt thou not, that those shall be anear
Who all thy tale shall nowise fail to hear
Howso they mock thee afterward. Farewell,
What end soe’er of this thou hast to tell,
Belike it is that ne’er shall meet again
Thine all devouring feverish longing vain
And my despair that the Gods needs must call
Patience and silence the great help of all.”
He drank, and almost ere her speech was o’er
Sank with dim eyes upon the marble floor
Then twice he feebly raised his eyes to see
If she were gone, and twice sank languidly
Again; and yet again somewhat he strove
To look forth, but now scarcely might he move,
For heavy sleep was on him, ‘gainst his will
And a void space; then dreams of the fair hill
That hung in Thrace above his fathers house,
Beset with youths and maidens amorous,
That waited there his corning forth to them
With harp and fair song, that the wool robe’s hem
Might dance about the maidens dancing feet,
And her loosed hair smite with its tangles sweet,
The youths flushed trembling face drawn close anigh.
But from the house he deemed there carne a cry
‘Orpheus is dead, and will not corne again’
And therewithal he seemed to strive in vain
To add a cry unto the wailing loud
That burst out straightway from the lovesome crowd,
But as he strove all sight passed clean away,
And no more had he thought of night or day,
Or lapse of time, nay scarce if he did live;
But none the less ever his mouth did strive
With that dumb wail and made no sound at all;
Until at last the pillars of the hall
Midst a dim twilight did he now behold
Grow slowly from the dark void; quenched and cold
The fire was; great drops fell from on high
Into the laver, and a strange wild cry
Rang through the long place – O Eurydice
My love my love! – yet he knew not that he
Had ever cried: but as he slowly rose
Unto his feet and drew the raiment close
Unto his shivering body, and his heart
Strove to gain memory, his white lips did part,
And as the dead may call unto the dead
With listless hands down-dropped, and hopeless head,
He cried; “O love, O love Eurydice!”
And through the hall his voice rang mournfully,
And died away, nor other sound was there
Except the drip into the water near,
And his own breathing: so at last he moved
And his foot smote against his harp beloved,
And from its strings there came a jarring sound
Familiar once, but mid the marvels round,
In that last refuge of his hope and woe
A stranger sound then err he hearkened to.
Therewith he gan remember where he was
And all that hitherto had come to pass,
And of the bidding of the dreadful crone
Then with the pain of feeling so alone,
None nigh to tell of all his longing sore
His heart grew soft, and his vexed eyes ran o’er
With bitter unseen tears; and midst of these
Came thronging thick and fast the images
Of bygone days; he stooped adown to take
His harp up, and he felt the strained strings quake,
Trembling himself; them with a doubtful hand
Laid on the harp, a while there did he stand
Nor named his hope; until at last the hall
Heard his deft fingers on the red gold fall
And move in loving wise: though he belike
Scarce knew what music therefrom he did strike,
Scarce knew what words from his parched lips carne forth.
For all these things to him were grown nought worth,
Only his love lived, only his longing strove
To think the whole world filled with his sweet love.
