From the Upland to the Sea by William Morris

    Glad at heart of everything,
    Yet pensive with the thought of eve?
    Then the white house shall we leave,
    Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,
    Through the garth, and go our ways,
    Wandering down among the meads
    Till our very joyance needs
    Rest at last; till we shall come
    To that Sun-god's lonely home,
    Lonely on the hill-side grey,
    Whence the sheep have gone away;
    Lonely till the feast-time is,
    When with prayer and praise of bliss,
    Thither comes the country side.
    There awhile shall we abide,
    Sitting low down in the porch
    By that image with the torch:
    Thy one white hand laid upon
    The black pillar that was won
    From the far-off Indian mine;
    And my hand nigh touching thine,
    But not touching; and thy gown
    Fair with spring-flowers cast adown
    From thy bosom and thy brow.
    There the south-west wind shall blow
    Through thine hair to reach my cheek,
    As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,
    Nor mayst move the hand I kiss
    For the very depth of bliss;
    Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me.
    Then desire of the great sea
    Nigh enow, but all unheard,
    In the hearts of us is stirred,
    And we rise, we twain at last,
    And the daffodils downcast,
    Feel thy feet and we are gone
    From the lonely Sun-Crowned one.
    Then the meads fade at our back,
    And the spring day 'gins to lack
    That fresh hope that once it had;
    But we twain grow yet more glad,
    And apart no more may go
    When the grassy slope and low
    Dieth in the shingly sand:
    Then we wander hand in hand
    By the edges of the sea,
    And I weary more for thee
    Than if far apart we were,
    With a space of desert drear
    'Twixt thy lips and mine, O love!
    Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!