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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
In "Poems By the Way," William Morris presents a collection of lyrical verses that reflect his deep appreciation for nature, love, and the ephemeral moments of life. This work, characterized by its rich imagery and rhythmic language, captures the essence of the Pre-Raphaelite movement, intertwining themes of beauty and social critique. Morris'Äôs engagement with medievalism and his nuanced reflections on contemporary issues are particularly evident, as he juxtaposes vivid portrayals of the natural world with a longing for a more harmonious society. The poems encapsulate his fervent belief in the transformative power of art and poetry, delivered through a style that is both accessible and profound. William Morris (1834-1896), a prominent figure in the Arts and Crafts Movement, was not only a poet but also a designer, Marxist thinker, and social activist. His commitment to craftsmanship and beauty in everyday life was rooted in a reaction against the industrialization of his time. "Poems By the Way" arose from his exploration of aesthetic ideals amidst societal challenges, echoing his personal journey towards a more utopian vision of the world. Readers seeking a poignant reflection on life's fleeting beauty will find Morris's work deeply resonant. "Poems By the Way" invites contemplation on the complexity of human experience while also serving as a profound critique of the socio-economic realities of the Victorian era. This collection is essential for those interested in the intersections of art, politics, and poetics.
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Poems By the Way
Table of Contents
HERE BEGIN POEMS BY THE WAY. WRITTEN BY WILLIAM MORRIS. AND FIRST IS THE POEM CALLED FROM THE UPLAND TO THE SEA.
Shall we wake one morn of spring, Glad at heart of everything, Yet pensive with the thought of eve? Then the white house shall we leave, Pass the wind-flowers and the bays, Through the garth, and go our ways, Wandering down among the meads Till our very joyance needs Rest at last; till we shall come To that Sun-god’s lonely home, Lonely on the hill-side grey, Whence the sheep have gone away; Lonely till the feast-time is, When with prayer and praise of bliss, Thither comes the country side. There awhile shall we abide, Sitting low down in the porch By that image with the torch: Thy one white hand laid upon The black pillar that was won From the far-off Indian mine; And my hand nigh touching thine, But not touching; and thy gown Fair with spring-flowers cast adown From thy bosom and thy brow. There the south-west wind shall blow Through thine hair to reach my cheek, As thou sittest, nor mayst speak, Nor mayst move the hand I kiss For the very depth of bliss; Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me. Then desire of the great sea Nigh enow, but all unheard, In the hearts of us is stirred, And we rise, we twain at last, And the daffodils downcast, Feel thy feet and we are gone From the lonely Sun-Crowned one. Then the meads fade at our back, And the spring day ’gins to lack That fresh hope that once it had; But we twain grow yet more glad, And apart no more may go When the grassy slope and low Dieth in the shingly sand: Then we wander hand in hand By the edges of the sea, And I weary more for thee Than if far apart we were, With a space of desert drear ’Twixt thy lips and mine, O love! Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!
OF THE WOOING OF HALLBIORN THE STRONG. A STORY FROM THE LAND- SETTLING BOOK OF ICELAND, CHAPTER XXX.
At Deildar-Tongue in the autumn-tide,So many times over comes summer again, Stood Odd of Tongue his door beside.What healing in summer if winter be vain? Dim and dusk the day was grown, As he heard his folded wethers moan. Then through the garth a man drew near, With painted shield and gold-wrought spear. Good was his horse and grand his gear, And his girths were wet with Whitewater. “Hail, Master Odd, live blithe and long! How fare the folk at Deildar-Tongue?” “All hail, thou Hallbiorn the Strong! How fare the folk by the Brothers’-Tongue?” “Meat have we there, and drink and fire, Nor lack all things that we desire. But by the other Whitewater Of Hallgerd many a tale we hear.” “Tales enow may my daughter make If too many words be said for her sake.” “What saith thine heart to a word of mine, That I deem thy daughter fair and fine? Fair and fine for a bride is she, And I fain would have her home with me.” “Full many a word that at noon goes forth Comes home at even little worth. Now winter treadeth on autumn-tide, So here till the spring shalt thou abide. Then if thy mind be changed no whit, And ye still will wed, see ye to it! And on the first of summer days, A wedded man, ye may go your ways. Yet look, howso the thing will fall, My hand shall meddle nought at all. Lo, now the night and rain draweth up, And within doors glimmer stoop and cup. And hark, a little sound I know, The laugh of Snæbiorn’s fiddle-bow, My sister’s son, and a craftsman good, When the red rain drives through the iron wood.” Hallbiorn laughed, and followed in, And a merry feast there did begin. Hallgerd’s hands undid his weed, Hallgerd’s hands poured out the mead. Her fingers at his breast he felt, As her hair fell down about his belt. Her fingers with the cup he took, And o’er its rim at her did look. Cold cup, warm hand, and fingers slim, Before his eyes were waxen dim. And if the feast were foul or fair, He knew not, save that she was there. He knew not if men laughed or wept, While still ’twixt wall and dais she stept. Whether she went or stood that eve, Not once his eyes her face did leave. But Snæbiorn laughed and Snæbiorn sang, And sweet his smitten fiddle rang. And Hallgerd stood beside him there,So many times over comes summer again, Nor ever once he turned to her,What healing in summer if winter be vain?
Master Odd on the morrow spake,So many times over comes summer again. “Hearken, O guest, if ye be awake,”What healing in summer if winter be vain? “Sure ye champions of the south Speak many things from a silent mouth. And thine, meseems, last night did pray That ye might well be wed to-day. The year’s ingathering feast it is, A goodly day to give thee bliss. Come hither, daughter, fine and fair, Here is a Wooer from Whitewater. East away hath he gotten fame, And his father’s name is e’en my names. Will ye lay hand within his hand, That blossoming fair our house may stand?” She laid her hand within his hand; White she was as the lily wand. Low sang Snæbiorn’s brand in its sheath, And his lips were waxen grey as death. “Snæbiorn, sing us a song of worth, If your song must be silent from now henceforth.” Clear and loud his voice outrang, And a song of worth at the wedding he sang. “Sharp sword,” he sang, “and death is sure.”So many times over comes summer again, “But love doth over all endure.”What healing in summer if winter be vain?
Now winter cometh and weareth away,So many times over comes summer again, And glad is Hallbiorn many a day.What healing in summer if winter be vain? Full soft he lay his love beside; But dark are the days of wintertide. Dark are the days, and the nights are long, And sweet and fair was Snæbiorn’s song. Many a time he talked with her, Till they deemed the summer-tide was there. And they forgat the wind-swept ways And angry fords of the flitting-days. While the north wind swept the hillside there They forgat the other Whitewater. While nights at Deildar-Tongue were long, They clean forgat the Brothers’-Tongue. But whatso falleth ’twixt Hell and Home,So many times over comes summer again, Full surely again shall summer come.What healing in summer if winter be vain?
To Odd spake Hallbiorn on a daySo many times over comes summer again, “Gone is the snow from everyway.”What healing in summer if winter be vain? Now green is grown Whitewater-side, And I to Whitewater will ride.” Quoth Odd, “Well fare thou winter-guest, May thine own Whitewater be best. Well is a man’s purse better at home Than open where folk go and come.” “Come ye carles of the south country, Now shall we go our kin to see! For the lambs are bleating in the south, And the salmon swims towards Olfus mouth. Girth and graithe and gather your gear! And ho for the other Whitewater!” Bright was the moon as bright might be, And Snæbiorn rode to the north country. And Odd to Reykholt is gone forth, To see if his mares be ought of worth. But Hallbiorn into the bower is gone And there sat Hallgerd all alone. She was not dight to go nor ride She had no joy of the summer-tide. Silent she sat and combed her hair, That fell all round about her there. The slant beam lay upon her head, And gilt her golden locks to red. He gazed at her with hungry eyes And fluttering did his heart arise. “Full hot,” he said, “is the sun to-day, And the snow is gone from the mountain-way. The king-cup grows above the grass, And through the wood do the thrushes pass.” Of all his words she hearkened none, But combed her hair amidst the sun. “The laden beasts stand in the garth And their heads are turned to Helliskarth.” The sun was falling on her knee, And she combed her gold hair silently. “To-morrow great will be the cheer At the Brothers’-Tongue by Whitewater.” From her folded lap the sunbeam slid; She combed her hair, and the word she hid. “Come, love; is the way so long and drear From Whitewater to Whitewater?” The sunbeam lay upon the floor; She combed her hair and spake no more. He drew her by the lily hand: “I love thee better than all the land.” He drew her by the shoulders sweet: “My threshold is but for thy feet.” He drew her by the yellow hair: “O why wert thou so deadly fair? “O am I wedded to death?” he cried “Is the Dead-strand come to Whitewater side?” And the sun was fading from the room, But her eyes were bright in the change and the gloom. “Sharp sword,” she sang, “and death is sure, But over all doth love endure.” She stood up shining in her place And laughed beneath his deadly face. Instead of the sunbeam gleamed a brand, The hilts were hard in Hallbiorn’s hand: The bitter point was in Hallgerd’s breast That Snæbiorn’s lips of love had pressed. Morn and noon, and nones passed o’er, And the sun is far from the bower door. To-morrow morn shall the sun come back,So many times over comes summer again, But Hallgerd’s feet the floor shall lack.What healing in summer if winter be vain?
Now Hallbiorn’s house-carles ride full fast,So many times over comes summer again, Till many a mile of way is past.What healing in summer if winter be vain? But when they came over Oxridges, ’Twas, “Where shall we give our horses ease?” When Shieldbroad-side was well in sight, ’Twas, “Where shall we lay our heads to-night?” Hallbiorn turned and raised his head; “Under the stones of the waste,” he said. Quoth one, “The clatter of hoofs anigh.” Quoth the other, “Spears against the sky!” “Hither ride men from the Wells apace; Spur we fast to a kindlier place.” Down from his horse leapt Hallbiorn straight: “Why should the supper of Odin wait? Weary and chased I will not come To the table of my fathers’ home.” With that came Snæbiorn, who but he, And twelve in all was his company. Snæbiorn’s folk were on their feet; He spake no word as they did meet. They fought upon the northern hill: Five are the howes men see there still. Three men of Snæbiorn’s fell to earth And Hallbiorn’s twain that were of worth. And never a word did Snæbiorn say, Till Hallbiorn’s foot he smote away. Then Hallbiorn cried: “Come, fellow of mine, To the southern bent where the sun doth shine.” Tottering into the sun he went, And slew two more upon the bent. And on the bent where dead he lay Three howes do men behold to-day. And never a word spake Snæbiorn yet, Till in his saddle he was set. Nor was there any heard his voice,So many times over comes summer again, Till he came to his ship in Grimsar-oyce.What healing in summer if winter be vain?
On so fair a day they hoisted sail,So many times over comes summer again, And for Norway well did the wind avail.What healing in summer if winter be vain? But Snæbiorn looked aloft and said: “I see in the sail a stripe of red: Murder, meseems, is the name of it And ugly things about it flit. A stripe of blue in the sail I see: Cold death of men it seems to me. And next I see a stripe of black, For a life fulfilled of bitter lack.” Quoth one, “So fair a wind doth blow That we shall see Norway soon enow.” “Be blithe, O shipmate,” Snæbiorn said, “Tell Hacon the Earl that I be dead.” About the midst of the Iceland main Round veered the wind to the east again. And west they drave, and long they ran Till they saw a land was white and wan. “Yea,” Snæbiorn said, “my home it is, Ye bear a man shall have no bliss. Far off beside the Greekish sea The maidens pluck the grapes in glee. Green groweth the wheat in the English land And the honey-bee flieth on every hand. In Norway by the cheaping town The laden beasts go up and down. In Iceland many a mead they mow And Hallgerd’s grave grows green enow. But these are Gunnbiorn’s skerries wan Meet harbour for a hapless man. In all lands else is love alive, But here is nought with grief to strive. Fail not for a while, O eastern wind, For nought but grief is left behind. And before me here a rest I know,”So many times over comes summer again, “A grave beneath the Greenland snow,”What healing in summer if winter be vain?
ECHOES OF LOVE’S HOUSE.
Love gives every gift whereby we long to live “Love takes every gift, and nothing back doth give.”
Love unlocks the lips that else were ever dumb: “Love locks up the lips whence all things good might come.”
Love makes clear the eyes that else would never see: “Love makes blind the eyes to all but me and thee.”
Love turns life to joy till nought is left to gain: “Love turns life to woe till hope is nought and vain.”
Love, who changest all, change me nevermore! “Love, who changest all, change my sorrow sore!”
Love burns up the world to changeless heaven and blest, “Love burns up the world to a void of all unrest.”
And there we twain are left, and no more work we need: “And I am left alone, and who my work shall heed?”
Ah! I praise thee, Love, for utter joyance won! “And is my praise nought worth for all my life undone?”
THE BURGHERS’ BATTLE.
Thick rise the spear-shafts o’er the land That erst the harvest bore; The sword is heavy in the hand,And we return no more. The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox, Our banner of the war, And ripples in the Running Ox,And we return no more. Across our stubble acres now The teams go four and four; But out-worn elders guide the plough,And we return no more. And now the women heavy-eyed Turn through the open door From gazing down the highway wide,Where we return no more. The shadows of the fruited close Dapple the feast-hall floor; There lie our dogs and dream and doze,And we return no more. Down from the minster tower to-day Fall the soft chimes of yore Amidst the chattering jackdaws’ play:And we return no more. But underneath the streets are still; Noon, and the market’s o’er! Back go the goodwives o’er the hill;For we return no more. What merchant to our gates shall come? What wise man bring us lore? What abbot ride away to Rome,Now we return no more? What mayor shall rule the hall we built? Whose scarlet sweep the floor? What judge shall doom the robber’s guilt,Now we return no more? New houses in the streets shall rise Where builded we before, Of other stone wrought otherwise;For we return no more. And crops shall cover field and hill Unlike what once they bore, And all be done without our will,Now we return no more. Look up! the arrows streak the sky, The horns of battle roar; The long spears lower and draw nigh,And we return no more. Remember how beside the wain, We spoke the word of war, And sowed this harvest of the plain,And we return no more. Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox! The days of old are o’er; Heave sword about the Running Ox!For we return no more.
