Test
Download document

MORRIS, William


A Good Knight In Prison

Wearily, drearily,

Half the day long,

Flap the great banners

High over the stone;

Strangely and eerily

Sounds the wind's song,

Bending the banner-poles.


While, all alone,

Watching the loophole's spark,

Lie I, with life all dark,

Feet tether'd, hands fetter'd

Fast to the stone,

The grim walls, square-letter'd

With prison'd men's groan.


Still strain the banner-poles

Through the wind's song,

Westward the banner rolls

Over my wrong.


Love is enough

LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning,

And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,

   Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover

The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,

Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,

   And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass'd over,

Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;

The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter

   These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.


The Eve Of Crecy


Gold on her head, and gold on her feet,

And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet,

And a golden girdle round my sweet;

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.


Margaret's maids are fair to see,

Freshly dress'd and pleasantly;

Margaret's hair falls down to her knee;

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.


If I were rich I would kiss her feet;

I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet,

And the golden kirtle round my sweet:

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.


Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand;

When the arrière-ban goes through the land,

Six basnets under my pennon stand;

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.


And many an one grins under his hood:

Sir Lambert du Bois, with all his men good,

Has neither food nor firewood;

Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite.


If I were rich I would kiss her feet,

And the golden girdle of my sweet,

And thereabouts where the gold hems meet;

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.


Yet even now it is good to think,

While my few poor varlets grumble and drink

In my desolate hall, where the fires sink,--

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite,--


Of Margaret sitting glorious there,

In glory of gold and glory of hair,

And glory of glorious face most fair;

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.


Likewise to-night I make good cheer,

Because this battle draweth near:

For what have I to lose or fear?

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.


For, look you, my horse is good to prance

A right fair measure in this war-dance,

Before the eyes of Philip of France;

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.


And sometime it may hap, perdie,

While my new towers stand up three and three,

And my hall gets painted fair to see--

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite--


That folks may say: Times change, by the rood,

For Lambert, banneret of the wood,

Has heaps of food and firewood;

Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.