Complete Works of William Morris, page 540
In the dreary desert isle.
THE WILLOW AND THE RED CLIFF (ABOUT THE RIVER GOES THE WIND)
About the river goes the wind
And moans through the sad grey willow,
And calls up sadly to my mind
The heave and the swell of the billow.
For the sea heaves up beneath the moon,
And the river runs down to it:
It will meet the sea by the red cliff soon,
Salt water running through it.
That cliff it rises steep from the sea
On its top a thorn-tree stands,
With its branches blown away from the sea,
As if praying with outstretched hands,
To be saved from the wind, from the merciless west
That moaneth through it always,
And very seldom giveth it rest
When the dark is falling pallwise.
One day when the wind moaned through that tree,
As it moans now through the willow,
On the cliff sat a woman clasping her knee
O’er the rise and fall of the billow.
And as she sits there without a moan
With her hand clasped round her knee,
The shadows go over her sitting alone,
And the shadows go over the sea,
And the clouds go over the face of the moon
That looketh down on the sea:
They will close around her very soon,
That you cannot tell where she be.
And the woman sits with her head bent down,
And thinketh of happy days;
Of the days when in the bright summer sun
She lifted her fair, fair face.
And the woman thought, sitting over the sea,
Of a glorious summer eve,
How, — under the boughs of the willow tree —
Ah! no tears fall for her grief.
The dark clouds now have closed over the moon,
That you cannot tell where she be:
And, from the face of the bright moon thrown,
Not a shadow goes over the sea.
And the woman sat while the night went on,
And she never unclasped her hands:
And the woman sat till the clouds were gone,
And the sun rose over the lands.
Then she sang in the light of the rising sun,
While the waves looked green and white:
She sang in the sunlight this mournful song,
While the red cliff turned from the light.
“Sun, that lookest straight at me
As I turn me from the sea,
Dost thou know my misery?
Dost thou know the willow tree
Underneath whose branches he
Plighted well his troth to me?
O! the happy willow tree
With the river by it sighing,
And the swallow by it flying,
And the thrush singing to it from the thorn-bush.
O! the happy willow tree,
For the river sigheth for it,
And the swallow flyeth to it,
And the thrush sings of love from the thorn-bush.
In the spring the thrush singeth,
From the bough the leaf springeth,
To hear him sing of love from the thorn-bush.
In the summer he is still;
From the river to the hill
No song of bird cometh to the thorn-bush.
But the happy willow tree
He is full as full can be
Of the song of love that rung out from the thorn-bush.
When the autumn cometh round,
All the air is filled with sound
That cometh from the sick yellow thorn-bush.
And the willow branches wave
xxxiij O’er the fallen leaves that pave
The dull earth all about the thorn-bush.
And the autumn passeth by,
And the dead leaves round it lie:
Red berries look out fairly from the thorn-bush.
And the willow swingeth heavily,
Thinking of the days gone by:
And he thinketh of the spring
And the song that shall outring
From the loving thrush a-sitting in the thorn-bush.”
Then the woman turned round to the sea,
Which swung its waves up heavily:
And she let her hair from its bands go free,
And the west wind blew it out wearily.
Then she turned round again to the sun,
And her hair was blown back on her:
And to close the sun in the clouds had begun:
Then the bitter song sprang from her.
“O! willow tree, O! willow tree,
Keepst thou the ring he gave to me:
And which I on thy branches hung,
When all about the song-thrush sung?
“O! willow-tree, O! willow-tree,
Wilt thou keep all my misery?
Wilt hide it in the hollow dark,
Where the wave has sapped thy bark?
Shall the song-thrush know it?
The forget-me-not show it
To the river running by?
O fair earth, fair sky above it:
O fair autumn elms that love it;
Fair trees that fill the hollow there;
Yellow leaves that float in air;
See! his picture I have kept;
I have never o’er it wept.
How my hair floats round him now,
How it blows against his brow.
I will give him to the sea,
The sea will keep him well for me
In his deep green waters.
Then over the face of the cliff she leant,
With the picture in her hand,
And as she lay with her head down bent,
Her long hair was blown on the land.
She stretched her hand adown the side
As far as her arm would reach:
And from her hand did the picture glide,
Waves caught it on the beach.
And still she lay with her head down bent,
And her hand stretched down to the sea,
And she said, as the sea wind over her went:
O! love dost call for me?
“O! love I will come to thee:
O! love we will dwell in the sea,
And in the pearl-strewn cave
Will gently move the billow
As once above us did wave
The green boughs of the willow.”
The clouds are over the face of the sun,
There is no wind below them:
But above the west-wind presses them on,
Nor ever rest will give them.
No living thing on the cliff does stand:
No face from the red cliff looks:
But the thorn-bush stretches out his hand
To the leaves in the little nooks.
And from the thorn-bush faraway
Doth the thrush to the willow sing:
And on the willow branch alway
Glitters a golden ring.
WINTER WEATHER (FOR MANY, MANY DAYS TOGETHER)
We rode together
In the winter weather
To the broad mead under the hill;
Though the skies did shiver
With the cold, the river
Ran, and was never still.
No cloud did darken
The night; we did hearken
The hound’s bark far away.
It was solemn midnight
In that dread, dread night,
In the years that have pass’d for aye.
Two rode beside me,
My banner did hide me,
As it droop’d adown from my lance;
With its deep blue trapping,
The mail over-lapping,
My gallant horse did prance.
So ever together
In the sparkling weather
Moved my banner and lance;
And its laurel trapping,
The steel over-lapping,
The stars saw quiver and dance.
We met together
In the winter weather
By the town-walls under the hill;
His mail-rings came clinking,
They broke on my thinking,
For the night was hush’d and still.
Two rode beside him,
His banner did hide him,
As it droop’d down straight from his lance;
With its blood-red trapping
The mail over-lapping,
His mighty horse did prance.
As ever together
In the solemn weather
Moved his banner and lance;
And the holly trapping,
The steel overlapping,
Did shimmer and shiver, and dance.
Back reined the squires
Till they saw the spires
Over the city wall;
Ten fathoms between us,
No dames could have seen us,
Tilt from the city wall.
There we sat upright
Till the full midnight
Should be told from the city chimes;
Sharp from the towers
Leapt forth the showers
Of the many clanging rhymes.
`Twas the midnight hour,
Deep from the tower
Boom’d the following bell;
Down go our lances,
Shout for the lances!
The last toll was his knell.
There he lay, dying;
He had, for his lying,
A spear in his traitorous mouth;
A false tale made he
Of my true, true lady;
But the spear went through his mouth.
In the winter weather
We rode back together
From the broad mead under the hill;
And the cock sung his warning
As it grew toward morning,
But the far-off hound was still.
Black grew his tower
As we rode down lower,
Black from the barren hill;
And our horses strode
Up the winding road
To the gateway dim and still.
At the gate of his tower,
In the quiet hour,
We laid his body there;
But his helmet broken,
We took as a token;
Shout for my lady fair!
We rode back together
In the winter weather
From the broad mead under the hill;
No cloud did darken
The night; we did hearken
How the hound bay’d from the hill.
‘
THE FEN-RIVER (DOWN, DOWN, DOWN, EVER DOWN THE RIVER)
Down, down, down, ever down the river
Where beneath our muffled oars the broken light did shiver,
Creeping through the shadows,
Sweeping through the light,
On went the black bows
In the quiet night.
Came we to the tower,
Close up to the wall,
In the midnight hour
Grim it looked, and tall.
Into the sullen moat,
By the water-gate
Quietly swept the boat
There my love did wait.
Mighty sleep was there,
Watcher was there none
But the white marsh-air
Watched the silent moon.
O! her lips were white,
And her hand was cold,
As she stepped light,
I grew very bold.
Standing in the boat
Shouted I full loud,
Back from tower to moat
Rang the echoes loud:
“What ho! Sir Godfrey!”
“Knight thy niece so fair
Leaves thee in thy fen,
Goes to the mountains fair,
Cometh to thee again
Never, Sir Godfrey.”
Then the bells pealed out,
Then lights flashed about,
Shouts mingled with my shout
‘Sir Godfrey, Sir Godfrey!’
Then we saw the squires
With torches, amid their fires
Dashed out the black bows,
Swept out the long oars,
Rose up our song,
As past the shadows,
As `twixt the low shores
Bore we along.
On, still on, down the brimming river
Where level with the green banks doth the water quiver,
Sweeping past the willows,
Sweeping `twixt the shores,
On went the black bows,
Swept out the oars.
THE BLACKBIRD
Listen to the blackbird singing
To the red flush in the west!
Of all that sing the spring in
The blackbird singeth best
O! how the music swelleth!
As he flutters there hard by,
For joy of the tales he telleth,
For the song that shall never die.
The young lime where he singeth
Will remember all his song,
When on his trunk time bringeth
The mosses clinging long.
To the bees by the blossoms humming
The leaves will tell the tale
In the summer that is coming
As they flutter in the gale.
His singing riseth higher
To the small clouds overhead,
It goeth on to the fire
By the small clouds that is fed.
Sunsets will keep his singing;
When the lime is on the ground.
In the ivy about it clinging
Will thoughts of the song be found.
TWAS IN CHURCH ON PALM SUNDAY
’Twas in church on Palm Sunday,
Listening what the Priest did say
Of the kiss that did betray,
That the thoughts did come to me
How the olives used to be
Growing in Gethsemane;
That the thoughts upon me came
Of the lanterns’ steady flame,
Of the softly whispered name;
Of how kiss and words did sound
When the olives stood around,
While the robe lay on the ground.
Then the words the Lord did speak
And that kiss in Holy Week
Dreams of many a kiss did make;
Lovers’ kiss beneath the moon,
With it sorrow cometh soon;
Juliet’s within the tomb;
Angelico’s in quiet light;
‘Mid the aureoles very bright
God is looking from the height;
There the monk his love doth meet,
Once he fell before her feet,
Ere within the Abbey sweet,
He, while music rose alway
From the Church, to God did pray
That his life might pass away.
There, between the angel-rows
With the light flame on his brows,
With his friend, the deacon goes;
Hand in hand they go together,
Loving hearts they go together
Where the Presence shineth ever.
Kiss upon the death-bed given,
Kiss on dying forehead given,
When the soul goes up to Heaven.
Many thoughts beneath the sun
Thought together, life is done,
Yet for ever love doth run.
Willow, grey against the blue,
Where the light clouds come and go,
Mindeth me of kiss untrue.
Christ, thine awful cross is thrown
Round the whole world, and thy sun
Woeful kisses looks upon —
Eastward slope the shadows now,
Very light the wind does blow,
Scarce it lifts the laurels low.
I cannot say the things I would,
I cannot think the things I would,
How the cross at evening stood.
Very blue the sky above,
Very sweet the faint clouds move,
Yet I cannot think of love.
BLANCHE
Broad leaves that I do not know
Grow upon the ground full low;
Over them the wind does blow.
Hemlock leaves I know full well,
And about me is the smell
That doth in the spring woods dwell.
And the finch sings cheerily,
And the wren sings merrily,
But the lark sings trancedly.
Silv’ry birch-trunks rise in air,
And beneath the birch-tree there,
Grows a yellow flower fair.
Many flowers grow around
And about me is the sound
Of the dead leaves on the ground.
Yea, I fell asleep last night
When the moon, at her full height,
Was a lovely, lovely sight.
I have had a troubled dream;
As I lay there in the beam
Of the moon, a sudden gleam
Of a white dress shot by me,
Yea, the white dress frighted me,
Flitting by the aspen tree.
Suddenly it turned round,
With a weary moaning sound
Lay the white dress on the ground.
There she knelt upon her knees,
There, between the aspen trees;
O! the dream right dreary is.
With her sweet face turned to me
