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| O HEARKEN, ye who speak the English Tongue, | |
| How in a waste land ages long ago, | |
| The very heart of the North bloomed into song | |
| After long brooding o’er this tale of woe! | |
| Hearken, and marvel how it might be so, | 5 |
| That such a sweetness so well crowned could be | |
| Betwixt the ice-hills and the cold grey sea. | |
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| Or rather marvel not, that those should cling | |
| Unto the thoughts of great lives passed away, | |
| Whom God has stripped so bare of everything, | 10 |
| Save the one longing to wear through their day, | |
| In fearless wise; the hope the Gods to stay, | |
| When at that last tide gathered wrong and hate | |
| Shall meet blind yearning on the Fields of Fate. | |
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| Yea, in the first grey dawning of our race, | 15 |
| This ruth-crowned tangle to sad hearts was dear. | |
| Then rose a seeming sun, the lift gave place | |
| Unto a seeming heaven, far off, but clear; | |
| But that passed too, and afternoon is here; | |
| Nor was the morn so fruitful or so long | 20 |
| But we may hearken when ghosts moan of wrong. | |
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| For as amid the clatter of the town | |
| When eve comes on with unabated noise, | |
| The soaring wind will sometimes drop adown | |
| And bear unto our chamber the sweet voice | 25 |
| Of bells that ’mid the swallows do rejoice, | |
| Half-heard, to make us sad, so we awhile | |
| With echoed grief life’s dull pain may beguile. | |
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| Naught vague, naught base our tale, that seems to say,— | |
| ‘Be wide-eyed, kind; curse not the hand that smites; | 30 |
| Curse not the kindness of a past good day, | |
| Or hope of love; cast by all earth’s delights, | |
| For very love: through weary days and nights, | |
| Abide thou, striving howsoe’er in vain, | |
| The inmost love of one more heart to gain!’ | 35 |
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| So draw ye round and hearken, English Folk, | |
| Unto the best tale pity ever wrought! | |
| Of how from dark to dark bright Sigurd broke, | |
| Of Brynhild’s glorious soul with love distraught, | |
| Of Gudrun’s weary wandering unto naught, | 40 |
| Of utter love defeated utterly, | |
Of grief too strong to give Love time to die!
WILLIAM MORRIS. | |
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