Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/136

 Will not let me close my eyes,

I murmur often, mix'd with sighs,

That my weak heart will not hold

At some things that I behold.

Nay, not sighs, but quiet groans,

That swell out the little bones

Of my bosom; till a trance

God sends in middle of that dance,

And I behold the countenance

Of Michael, and can feel no more

The bitter east wind biting sore

My naked feet; can see no more

The crayfish on the leaden floor,

That mock with feeler and grim claw.

Yea, often in that happy trance,

Beside the blessed countenance

Of golden Michael, on the spire

Glowing all crimson in the fire

Of sunset, I behold a face,

Which sometime, if God give me grace,

May kiss me in this very place.

Evening in the tower

It grows half way between the dark and light;

Love, we have been six hours here alone,

I fear that she will come before the night,

And if she finds us thus we are undone.