The House of the Wolfings. William Morris

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      “ ’Tis the hardy heart, beloved, that keepeth me alive,

      As the king-leek in the garden by the rain and the sun doth thrive,

      So I thrive by the praise of the people; it is blent with my drink and my meat;

      As I slumber in the night-tide it laps me soft and sweet;

      And through the chamber window when I waken in the morn

      With the wind of the sun’s arising from the meadow is it borne

      And biddeth me remember that yet I live on earth:

      Then I rise and my might is with me, and fills my heart with mirth,

      As I think of the praise of the people; and all this joy I win

      By the deeds that my heart commandeth and the hope that lieth therein.”

      “Nay, nay; I began, I was born; although it may be indeed

      That not on the hills of the earth I sprang from the godhead’s seed.

      And e’en as my birth and my waxing shall be my waning and end.

      But thou on many an errand, to many a field dost wend

      Where the bow at adventure bended, or the fleeing dastard’s spear

      Oft lulleth the mirth of the mighty. Now me thou dost not fear,

      Yet fear with me, beloved, for the mighty Maid I fear;

      And Doom is her name, and full often she maketh me afraid

      And even now meseemeth on my life her hand is laid.”

      “In what land is she abiding? Is she near or far away?

      Will she draw up close beside me in the press of the battle play?

      And if then I may not smite her ’midst the warriors of the field

      With the pale blade of my fathers, will she bide the shove of my shield?”

      “In many a stead Doom dwelleth, nor sleepeth day nor night:

      The rim of the bowl she kisseth, and beareth the chambering light

      When the kings of men wend happy to the bride-bed from the board.

      It is little to say that she wendeth the edge of the grinded sword,

      When about the house half builded she hangeth many a day;

      The ship from the strand she shoveth, and on his wonted way

      By the mountain-hunter fareth where his foot ne’er failed before:

      She is where the high bank crumbles at last on the river’s shore:

      The mower’s scythe she whetteth; and lulleth the shepherd to sleep

      Where the deadly ling-worm wakeneth in the desert of the sheep.

      Now we that come of the God-kin of her redes for ourselves we wot,

      But her will with the lives of men-folk and their ending know we not.

      So therefore I bid thee not fear for thyself of Doom and her deed,

      But for me: and I bid thee hearken to the helping of my need.

      Or else—Art thou happy in life, or lusteth thou to die

      In the flower of thy days, when thy glory and thy longing bloom on high?”

      “I have deemed, and long have I deemed that this is my second life,

      That my first one waned with my wounding when thou cam’st to the ring of strife.

      For when in thine arms I wakened on the hazelled field of yore,

      Meseemed I had newly arisen to a world I knew no more,

      So much had all things brightened on that dewy dawn of day.

      It was dark dull death that I looked for when my thought had died away.

      It was lovely life that I woke to; and from that day henceforth

      My joy of the life of man-folk was manifolded of worth.

      Far fairer the fields of the morning than I had known them erst,

      And the acres where I wended, and the corn with its half-slaked thirst;

      And the noble Roof of the Wolfings, and the hawks that sat thereon;

      And the bodies of my kindred whose deliverance I had won;

      And the glimmering of the Hall-Sun in the dusky house of old;

      And my name in the mouth of the maidens, and the praises of the bold,

      As I sat in my battle-raiment, and the ruddy spear well steeled

      Leaned ’gainst my side war-battered, and the wounds thine hand had healed.

      Yea, from that morn thenceforward has my life been good indeed,

      The gain of to-day was goodly, and good to-morrow’s need,

      And good the whirl of the battle, and the broil I wielded there,

      Till I fashioned the ordered onset, and the unhoped victory fair.

      And good were the days thereafter of utter deedless rest

      And the prattle of thy daughter, and her hands on my unmailed breast.

      Ah good is the life thou hast given, the life that mine hands have won.

      And where shall be the ending till the world is all undone?

      Here sit we twain together, and both we in Godhead clad,

      We twain of the Wolfing kindred, and each of the other glad.”

      “O mighty man and joyous, art thou of the Wolfing kin?

      ’Twas no evil deed when we mingled, nor lieth doom therein.

      Thou lovely man, thou black-haired, thou shalt die and have done no ill.

      Fame-crowned are the deeds of thy doing, and the mouths of men they fill.

      Thou betterer of the Godfolk, enduring is thy fame:

      Yet as a painted image of a dream is thy dreaded name.

      Of an alien folk thou comest, that we twain might be one indeed.

      Thou shalt die one day. So hearken, to help me at my need.”