Dies in the autumn night,
And the bat flits till light,
And the love-crazèd knight

Kisses the long wet grass:
The weary days pass,-
Gold wings across the sea.

Gold wings across the sea!
Moonlight from tree to tree,
Sweet hair laid on my knee,
O, sweet knight, come to me.

Gold wings, the short night slips,
The white swan's long neck drips,
I pray thee, kiss my lips,
Gold wings across the sea!

NO answer through the moonlit night;
No answer in the cold grey dawn;
No answer when the shaven lawn
Grew green, and all the roses bright.

Her tired feet look'd cold and thin,

Her lips were twitch'd, and wretched tears, Some, as she lay, roll'd past her ears, Some fell from off her quivering chin.

Her long throat, stretched to its full length, Rose up and fell right brokenly;

As though the unhappy heart was nigh Striving to break with all its strength.

And when she slipp'd from off the bed,

Her cramp'd feet would not hold her; she Sank down and crept on hand and knee, On the window-sill she laid her head.

There, with crooked arm upon the sill,
She look'd out, muttering dismally:
'There is no sail upon the sea,
No pennon on the empty hill.

'I cannot stay here all alone,

Or meet their happy faces here, And wretchedly I have no fear; A little while, and I am gone.'

Therewith she rose upon her feet,
And totter'd; cold and misery

Still made the deep sobs come, till she
At last stretch'd out her fingers sweet,

And caught the great sword in her hand;
And, stealing down the silent stair,
Barefooted in the morning air,

And only in her smock, did stand

Upright upon the green lawn grass;
And hope grew in her as she said:
'I have thrown off the white and red,
And
pray God it may come to pass

'I meet him; if ten years go by

Before I meet him; if, indeed,

Meanwhile both soul and body bleed, Yet there is end of misery,

'And I have hope. He could not come, But I can go to him and show

These new things I have got to know, And make him speak, who has been dumb.'

O Jehane! the red morning sun

Changed her white feet to glowing gold, Upon her smock, on crease and fold, Changed that to gold which had been dun.

O Miles, and Giles, and Isabeau,
Fair Ellayne le Violet,

Mary, Constance fille de fay!
Where is Jehane du Castel beau?

O big Gervaise ride apace!

Down to the hard yellow sand, Where the water meets the land. This is Jehane by her face.

Why has she a broken sword?
Mary! she is slain outright;
Verily a piteous sight;
Take her up without a word!

Giles and Miles and Gervaise there,
Ladies' Gard must meet the war;
Whatsoever knights these are,
Man the walls withouten fear!

Axes to the apple-trees,
Axes to the aspens tall!
Barriers without the wall
May be lightly made of these.

O poor shivering Isabeau;
Poor Ellayne le Violet,

Bent with fear! we miss to-day
Brave Jehane du Castel beau.

O poor Mary, weeping so!
Wretched Constance fille de fay!
Verily we miss to-day

Fair Jehane du Castel beau.

THE apples now grow green and sour
Upon the mouldering castle-wall,
Before they ripen there they fall:
There are no banners on the tower,

The draggled swans most eagerly eat
The green weeds trailing in the moat;
Inside the rotting leaky boat

You see a slain man's stiffen'd feet.

William Morris

CHORUS FROM ATALANTA IN CALYDON

WHEN the hounds of Spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;
And the bright brown nightingale amorous
Is half assuaged for Itylus,

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
Maiden most perfect, lady of light,

With a noise of winds and many rivers,
With a clamour of waters, and with might;
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet,
Over the splendour and speed of thy feet;
For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,
Round the feet of the day and the feet of the
night.

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,
Fold our hands round her knees, and cling?

O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her,

Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her

As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing.

For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;

The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins;