Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/144



Guendolen ! Guendolen !

Lend me your hair!

Verily, I seem like one

Who, when day is almost done,

Through a thick wood meets the sun

That blazes in her hair.

Yea, at the palace gates,

"Praise God!" the great knights said,

"For Sebald the high king,

And the lady's golden head."

Woe is me! Guendolen

Sweeps back her hair.

Nothing wretched now, no screams;

I was unhappy once in dreams,

And even now a harsh voice seems

To hang about my hair.