WILLIAM MORRIS

NEW IMPRESSION

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA 1907

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE First Edition in this form, June 1896; Reprinted February 1898, May 1902, and June 1907

POEMS BY THE WAY

FROM THE UPLAND TO THE SEA

OF THE WOOING OF HALLBIORN THE STRONG

A STORY FROM THE LAND-SETTLING BOOK OF ICELAND, CHAPTER XXX.

ECHOES OF LOVE'S HOUSE

THE BURGHERS' BATTLE

HOPE DIETH: LOVE LIVETH

ERROR AND LOSS

THE HALL AND THE WOOD

THE DAY OF DAYS

TO THE MUSE OF THE NORTH

OF THE THREE SEEKERS

LOVE'S GLEANING-TIDE

THE MESSAGE OF THE MARCH WIND

A DEATH SONG

ICELAND FIRST SEEN

THE RAVEN AND THE KING'S DAUGHTER

SPRING'S BEDFELLOW

MEETING IN WINTER

THE TWO SIDES OF THE RIVER

LOVE FULFILLED

THE KING OF DENMARK'S SONS

ON THE EDGE OF THE WILDERNESS

A GARDEN BY THE SEA

MOTHER AND SON

THUNDER IN THE GARDEN

THE GOD OF THE POOR

LOVE'S REWARD

THE FOLK-MOTE BY THE RIVER

THE VOICE OF TOIL

GUNNAR'S HOWE ABOVE THE HOUSE AT LITHEND

THE DAY IS COMING

EARTH THE HEALER, EARTH THE KEEPER

ALL FOR THE CAUSE

PAIN AND TIME STRIVE NOT

DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT

VERSES FOR PICTURES

FOR THE BRIAR ROSE

ANOTHER FOR THE BRIAR ROSE

THE WOODPECKER

THE LION

THE FOREST

POMONA

FLORA

THE ORCHARD

TAPESTRY TREES

THE FLOWERING ORCHARD

THE END OF MAY

THE HALF OF LIFE GONE

MINE AND THINE

THE LAY OF CHRISTINE

HILDEBRAND AND HELLELIL

THE SON'S SORROW

AGNES AND THE HILL-MAN

KNIGHT AAGEN AND MAIDEN ELSE

HAFBUR AND SIGNY

GOLDILOCKS AND GOLDILOCKS

LOVE IS ENOUGH

OR

THE FREEING OF PHARAMOND

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

LOVE IS ENOUGH

ARGUMENT

This story, which is told by way of a morality set before an Emperor and Empress newly wedded, showeth of a King whom nothing but Love might satisfy, who left all to seek Love, and, having found it, found this also, that he had enough, though he lacked all else.

In the streets of a great town where the people are gathered together thronging to see the Emperor and Empress pass.

Look long, Joan, while I hold you so, For the silver trumpets come arow.

O the sweet sound! the glorious sight! O Giles, Giles, see this glittering Knight!

Nay 'tis the Marshalls'-sergeant, sweet— —Hold, neighbour, let me keep my feet!— There, now your head is up again; Thus held up have you aught of pain?

Nay, clear I see, and well at ease! God's body! what fair Kings be these?

The Emperor's chamberlains, behold Their silver shoes and staves of gold. Look, look! how like some heaven come down The maidens go with girded gown!

Yea, yea, and this last row of them Draw up their kirtles by the hem, And scatter roses e'en like those About my father's garden-close.

Ah! have I hurt you? See the girls Whose slim hands scatter very pearls.

Hold me fast, Giles! here comes one Whose raiment flashes down the sun.

O sweet mouth! O fair lids cast down! O white brow! O the crown, the crown!

How near! if nigher I might stand By one ell, I could touch his hand.

Look, Joan! if on this side she were Almost my hand might touch her hair.

Ah me! what is she thinking on?

Is he content now all is won?

And does she think as I thought, when Betwixt the dancing maids and men, Twixt the porch rose-boughs blossomed red I saw the roses on my bed?

Hath he such fear within his heart As I had, when the wind did part The jasmine-leaves, and there within The new-lit taper glimmered thin?

THE MUSIC

(As the EMPEROR and EMPRESS enter.)

The spears flashed by me, and the swords swept round, And in war's hopeless tangle was I bound, But straw and stubble were the cold points found, For still thy hands led down the weary way.

Through hall and street they led me as a queen, They looked to see me proud and cold of mien, I heeded not though all my tears were seen, For still I dreamed of thee throughout the day.

Wild over bow and bulwark swept the sea Unto the iron coast upon our lee, Like painted cloth its fury was to me, For still thy hands led down the weary way.

They spoke to me of war within the land, They bade me sign defiance and command; I heeded not though thy name left my hand, For still I dreamed of thee throughout the day.

But now that I am come, and side by side We go, and men cry gladly on the bride And tremble at the image of my pride, Where is thy hand to lead me down the way?

But now that thou art come, and heaven and earth Are laughing in the fulness of their mirth, A shame I knew not in my heart has birth— —Draw me through dreams unto the end of day!

Behold, behold, how weak my heart is grown Now all the heat of its desire is known! Pearl beyond price I fear to call mine own, Where is thy hand to lead me down the way?

Behold, behold, how little I may move! Think in thy heart how terrible is Love, O thou who know'st my soul as God above— —Draw me through dreams unto the end of day!

The stage for the play in another part of the street, and the people thronging all about.

Here, Joan, this is so good a place 'Tis worth the scramble and the race! There is the Empress just sat down, Her white hands on her golden gown, While yet the Emperor stands to hear The welcome of the bald-head Mayor Unto the show; and you shall see The player-folk come in presently. The king of whom is e'en that one, Who wandering but a while agone Stumbled upon our harvest-home That August when you might not come. Betwixt the stubble and the grass Great mirth indeed he brought to pass. But liefer were I to have seen Your nimble feet tread down the green In threesome dance to pipe and fife.

Thou art a dear thing to my life, And nought good have I far to seek— But hearken! for the Mayor will speak.

Since your grace bids me speak without stint or sparing A thing little splendid I pray you to see: Early is the day yet, for we near the dawning Drew on chains dear-bought, and gowns done with gold; So may ye high ones hearken an hour A tale that our hearts hold worthy and good, Of Pharamond the Freed, who, a king feared and honoured, Fled away to find love from his crown and his folk. E'en as I tell of it somewhat I tremble Lest we, fearful of treason to the love that fulfils you, Should seem to make little of the love that ye give us, Of your lives full of glory, of the deeds that your lifetime Shall gleam with for ever when we are forgotten. Forgive it for the greatness of that Love who compels us.— Hark! in the minster-tower minish the joy-bells, And all men are hushed now these marvels to hear.

We thank your love, that sees our love indeed Toward you, toward Love, toward life of toil and need: We shall not falter though your poet sings Of all defeat, strewing the crowns of kings About the thorny ways where Love doth wend, Because we know us faithful to the end Toward you, toward Love, toward life of war and deed, And well we deem your tale shall help our need.

So many hours to pass before the sun Shall blush ere sleeping, and the day be done! How thinkest thou, my sweet, shall such a tale For lengthening or for shortening them avail?

Nay, dreamland has no clocks the wise ones say, And while our hands move at the break of day We dream of years: and I am dreaming still And need no change my cup of joy to fill: Let them say on, and I shall hear thy voice Telling the tale, and in its love rejoice.

THE MUSIC

(As the singers enter and stand before the curtain, the player-king and player-maiden in the midst.)

Lo you, my sweet, fair folk are one and all And with good grace their broidered robes do fall, And sweet they sing indeed: but he, the King, Look but a little how his fingers cling To her's, his love that shall be in the play— His love that hath been surely ere to-day: And see, her wide soft eyes cast down at whiles Are opened not to note the people's smiles But her love's lips, and dreamily they stare As though they sought the happy country, where They two shall be alone, and the world dead.

Most faithful eyes indeed look from the head The sun has burnt, and wind and rain has beat, Well may he find her slim brown fingers sweet. And he—methinks he trembles, lest he find That song of his not wholly to her mind. Note how his grey eyes look askance to see Her bosom heaving with the melody His heart loves well: rough with the wind and rain His cheek is, hollow with some ancient pain; The sun has burned and blanched his crispy hair, And over him hath swept a world of care And left him careless, rugged, and her own; Still fresh desired, still strange and new, though known.

His eyes seem dreaming of the mysteries Deep in the depths of her familiar eyes, Tormenting and alluring; does he dream, As I ofttime this morn, how they would seem Loved but unloving?—Nay the world's too sweet That we the ghost of such a pain should meet— Behold, she goes, and he too, turning round, Remembers that his love must yet be found, That he is King and loveless in this story Wrought long ago for some dead poet's glory.

Enter before the curtain LOVE crowned as a King.

All hail, my servants! tremble ye, my foes! A hope for these I have, a fear for those Hid in this tale of Pharamond the Freed. To-day, my Faithful, nought shall be your need Of tears compassionate:—although full oft The crown of love laid on my bosom soft Be woven of bitter death and deathless fame, Bethorned with woe, and fruited thick with shame. —This for the mighty of my courts I keep, Lest through the world there should be none to weep Except for sordid loss; and not to gain But satiate pleasure making mock of pain. —Yea, in the heaven from whence my dreams go forth Are stored the signs that make the world of worth: There is the wavering wall of mighty Troy About my Helen's hope and Paris' joy: There lying neath the fresh dyed mulberry-tree The sword and cloth of Pyramus I see: There is the number of the joyless days Wherein Medea won no love nor praise: There is the sand my Ariadne pressed; The footprints of the feet that knew no rest While o'er the sea forth went the fatal sign: The asp of Egypt, the Numidian wine, My Sigurd's sword, my Brynhild's fiery bed,

The tale of years of Gudrun's drearihead, And Tristram's glaive, and Iseult's shriek are here, And cloister-gown of joyless Guenevere.

Save you, my Faithful! how your loving eyes Grow soft and gleam with all these memories! But on this day my crown is not of death: My fire-tipped arrows, and my kindling breath Are all the weapons I shall need to-day. Nor shall my tale in measured cadence play About the golden lyre of Gods long gone, Nor dim and doubtful 'twixt the ocean's moan Wail out about the Northern fiddle-bow, Stammering with pride or quivering shrill with woe. Rather caught up at hazard is the pipe That mixed with scent of roses over ripe, And murmur of the summer afternoon, May charm you somewhat with its wavering tune 'Twixt joy and sadness: whatsoe'er it saith, I know at least there breathes through it my breath

OF PHARAMOND THE FREED

Scene: In the Kings Chamber of Audience.

MASTER OLIVER and many LORDS and COUNCILLORS.

Fair Master Oliver, thou who at all times Mayst open thy heart to our lord and master, Tell us what tidings thou hast to deliver; For our hearts are grown heavy, and where shall we turn to If thus the king's glory, our gain and salvation, Must go down the wind amid gloom and despairing?

Little may be looked for, fair lords, in my story, To lighten your hearts of the load lying on them. For nine days the king hath slept not an hour, And taketh no heed of soft words or beseeching. Yea, look you, my lords, if a body late dead In the lips and the cheeks should gain some little colour, And arise and wend forth with no change in the eyes, And wander about as if seeking its soul— Lo, e'en so sad is my lord and my master; Yea, e'en so far hath his soul drifted from us.

What say the leeches? Is all their skill left them?

Nay, they bade lead him to hunt and to tilting, To set him on high in the throne of his honour To judge heavy deeds: bade him handle the tiller, And drive through the sea with the wind at its wildest; All things he was wont to hold kingly and good. So we led out his steed and he straight leapt upon him With no word, and no looking to right nor to left, And into the forest we fared as aforetime: Fast on the king followed, and cheered without stinting The hounds to the strife till the bear stood at bay; Then there he alone by the beech-trees alighted; Barehanded, unarmoured, he handled the spear-shaft, And blew up the death on the horn of his father; Yet still in his eyes was no look of rejoicing, And no life in his lips; but I likened him rather To King Nimrod carved fair on the back of the high-seat When the candles are dying, and the high moon is streaming Through window and luffer white on the lone pavement Whence the guests are departed in the hall of the palace.— —Rode we home heavily, he with his rein loose, Feet hanging free from the stirrups, and staring

At a clot of the bear's blood that stained his green kirtle;— Unkingly, unhappy, he rode his ways homeward.

Was this all ye tried, or have ye more tidings? For the wall tottereth not at first stroke of the ram.

Nay, we brought him a-board the Great Dragon one dawning, When the cold bay was flecked with the crests of white billows And the clouds lay alow on the earth and the sea; He looked not aloft as they hoisted the sail, But with hand on the tiller hallooed to the shipmen In a voice grown so strange, that it scarce had seemed stranger If from the ship Argo, in seemly wise woven On the guard-chamber hangings, some early grey dawning Great Jason had cried, and his golden locks wavered. Then e'en as the oars ran outboard, and dashed In the wind-scattered foam and the sails bellied out, His hand dropped from the tiller, and with feet all uncertain And dull eye he wended him down to the midship, And gazing about for the place of the gangway Made for the gate of the bulwark half open, And stood there and stared at the swallowing sea, Then turned, and uncertain went wandering back sternward, And sat down on the deck by the side of the helmsman, Wrapt in dreams of despair; so I bade them turn shoreward, And slowly he rose as the side grated stoutly

'Gainst the stones of the quay and they cast forth the hawser.— Unkingly, unhappy, he went his ways homeward.

But by other ways yet had thy wisdom to travel; How else did ye work for the winning him peace?

We bade gather the knights for the goodliest tilting, There the ladies went lightly in glorious array; In the old arms we armed him whose dints well he knew That the night dew had dulled and the sea salt had sullied: On the old roan yet sturdy we set him astride; So he stretched forth his hand to lay hold of the spear Neither laughing nor frowning, as lightly his wont was When the knights are awaiting the voice of the trumpet. It awoke, and back beaten from barrier to barrier Was caught up by knights' cries, by the cry of the king.— —Such a cry as red Mars in the Council-room window May awake with some noon when the last horn is winded, And the bones of the world are dashed grinding together. So it seemed to my heart, and a horror came o'er me, As the spears met, and splinters flew high o'er the field, And I saw the king stay when his course was at swiftest, His horse straining hard on the bit, and he standing Stiff and stark in his stirrups, his spear held by the midmost, His helm cast a-back, his teeth set hard together; E'en as one might, who, riding to heaven, feels round him

The devils unseen: then he raised up the spear As to cast it away, but therewith failed his fury, He dropped it, and faintly sank back in the saddle, And, turning his horse from the press and the turmoil, Came sighing to me, and sore grieving I took him And led him away, while the lists were fallen silent As a fight in a dream that the light breaketh through.— To the tune of the clinking of his fight-honoured armour Unkingly, unhappy, he went his ways homeward.

What thing worse than the worst in the budget yet lieth?

To the high court we brought him, and bade him to hearken The pleading of his people, and pass sentence on evil. His face changed with great pain, and his brow grew all furrowed, As a grim tale was told there of the griefs of the lowly; Till he took up the word, mid the trembling of tyrants, As his calm voice and cold wrought death on ill doers— —E'en so might King Minos in marble there carven Mid old dreaming of Crete give doom on the dead, When the world and its deeds are dead too and buried.— But lo, as I looked, his clenched hands were loosened, His lips grew all soft, and his eyes were beholding Strange things we beheld not about and above him. So he sat for a while, and then swept his robe round him And arose and departed, not heeding his people, The strange looks, the peering, the rustle and whisper; But or ever he gained the gate that gave streetward, Dull were his eyes grown, his feet were grown heavy, His lips crooned complaining, as onward he stumbled;— Unhappy, unkingly, he went his ways homeward.

Is all striving over then, fair Master Oliver?

All mine, lords, for ever! help who may help henceforth I am but helpless: too surely meseemeth He seeth me not, and knoweth no more Me that have loved him. Woe worth the while, Pharamond, That men should love aught, love always as I loved! Mother and sister and the sweetling that scorned me, The wind of the autumn-tide over them sweepeth, All are departed, but this one, the dear one— I should die or he died and be no more alone, But God's hatred hangs round me, and the life and the glory That grew with my waning life fade now before it, And leaving no pity depart through the void.

This is a sight full sorry to see These tears of an elder! But soft now, one cometh.

The feet of the king: will ye speak or begone?

I will speak at the least, whoever keeps silence, For well it may be that the voice of a stranger Shall break through his dreaming better than thine; And lo now a word in my mouth is a-coming, That the king well may hearken: how sayst thou, fair master, Whose name now I mind not, wilt thou have me essay it?

Try whatso thou wilt, things may not be worser. [Enter KING. Behold, how he cometh weighed down by his woe!

All hail, lord and master! wilt thou hearken a little These lords high in honour whose hearts are full heavy Because thy heart sickeneth and knoweth no joy?—

Ah, see you! all silent, his eyes set and dreary, His lips moving a little—how may I behold it?

May I speak, king? dost hearken? many matters I have To deal with or death. I have honoured thee duly Down in the north there; a great name I have held thee; Rough hand in the field, ready righter of wrong, Reckless of danger, but recking of pity. But now—is it false what the chapmen have told us, And are thy fair robes all thou hast of a king? Is it bragging and lies, that thou beardless and tender Weptst not when they brought thy slain father before thee, Trembledst not when the leaguer that lay round thy city Made a light for these windows, a noise for thy pillow? Is it lies what men told us of thy singing and laughter As thou layst in thy lair fled away from lost battle? Is it lies how ye met in the depths of the mountains, And a handful rushed down and made nought of an army? Those tales of your luck, like the tide at its turning, Trusty and sure howso slowly it cometh, Are they lies? Is it lies of wide lands in the world, How they sent thee great men to lie low at thy footstool In five years thenceforward, and thou still a youth?

Are they lies, these fair tidings, or what see thy lords here— Some love-sick girl's brother caught up by that sickness, As one street beggar catches the pest from his neighbour?

What words are these of lies and love-sickness? Why am I lonely among all this brawling? O foster-father, is all faith departed That this hateful face should be staring upon me?

Lo, now thou awakest; so tell me in what wise I shall wend back again: set a word in my mouth To meet the folks' murmur, and give heart to the heavy; For there man speaks to man that thy measure is full, And thy five-years-old kingdom is falling asunder.