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Poem by William Morris
The Two Sides Of The River
The Youths. O Winter, O white winter, wert thou gone No more within the wilds were I alone Leaping with bent bow over stock and stone! No more alone my love the lamp should burn, Watching the weary spindle twist and turn, Or o’er the web hold back her tears and yearn: O winter, O white winter, wert thou gone! The Maidens. Sweet thoughts fly swiftlier than the drifting snow, And with the twisting threads sweet longings grow, And o’er the web sweet pictures come and go, For no white winter are we long alone. The Youths. O stream so changed, what hast thou done to me, That I thy glittering ford no more can see Wreathing with white her fair feet lovingly? See, in the rain she stands, and, looking down With frightened eyes upon thy whirlpools brown, Drops to her feet again her girded gown. O hurrying turbid stream, what hast thou done? The Maidens. The clouds lift, telling of a happier day When through the thin stream I shall take my way, Girt round with gold, and garlanded with may, What rushing stream can keep us long alone? The Youths. O burning Sun, O master of unrest, Why must we, toiling, cast away the best, Now, when the bird sleeps by her empty nest? See, with my garland lying at her feet, In lonely labour stands mine own, my sweet, Above the quern half-filled with half-ground wheat. O red taskmaster, that thy flames were done! The Maidens. O love, to-night across the half-shorn plain Shall I not go to meet the yellow wain, A look of love at end of toil to gain? What flaming sun can keep us long alone? The Youths. To-morrow, said I, is grape gathering o’er; To-morrow, and our loves are twinned no more To-morrow came, to bring us woe and war. What have I done, that I should stand with these Hearkening the dread shouts borne upon the breeze, While she, far off, sits weeping ’neath her trees? Alas, O kings, what is it ye have done? The Maidens. Come, love, delay not; come, and slay my dread! Already is the banquet table spread; In the cool chamber flower-strewn is my bed: Come, love, what king shall keep us long alone? The Youths. O city, city, open thou thy gate! See, with life snatched from out the hand of fate! How on thy glittering triumph I must wait! Are not her hands stretched out to me? Her eyes, Grow they not weary as each new hope dies, And lone before her still the long road lies? O golden city, fain would I be gone! The Maidens. And thou art happy, amid shouts and songs, And all that unto conquering men belongs. Night hath no fear for me, and day no wrongs. What brazen city gates can keep us, lone? The Youths. O long, long road, how bare thou art, and grey! Hill after hill thou climbest, and the day Is ended now, O moonlit endless way! And she is standing where the rushes grow, And still with white hand shades her anxious brow, Though ’neath the world the sun is fallen now, O dreary road, when will thy leagues be done? The Maidens. O tremblest thou, grey road, or do my feet Tremble with joy, thy flinty face to meet? Because my love’s eyes soon mine eyes shall greet? No heart thou hast to keep us long alone. The Youths. O wilt thou ne’er depart, thou heavy night? When will thy slaying bring on the morning bright, That leads my weary feet to my delight? Why lingerest thou, filling with wandering fears My lone love’s tired heart; her eyes with tears For thoughts like sorrow for the vanished years? Weaver of ill thoughts, when wilt thou be gone? The Maidens. Love, to the east are thine eyes turned as mine, In patient watching for the night’s decline? And hast thou noted this grey widening line? Can any darkness keep us long alone? The Youth. O day, O day, is it a little thing That thou so long unto thy life must cling, Because I gave thee such a welcoming? I called thee king of all felicity, I praised thee that thou broughtest joy so nigh; Thine hours are turned to years, thou wilt not die; O day so longed for, would that thou wert gone! The Maidens. The light fails, love; the long day soon shall be Nought but a pensive happy memory Blessed for the tales it told to thee and me. How hard it was, O love, to be alone.
William Morris's other poems:
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