The Earthly Paradise (September-November): October: Introduction

The Earthly Paradise, (September-November), by William Morris, [1870] O LOVE, turn from the unchanging sea, and gaze Down these grey slopes upon the year grown old, A-dying mid the autumn-scented haze, That hangeth o’er the hollow in the wold, Where the wind-bitten ancient elms infold Grey church, long barn, orchard, and red-roofed stead, Wrought in dead days for men a long while dead. Come down, O love; may not our hands still meet, Since still we live to-day, forgetting June, Forgetting May, deeming October sweet— —O hearken, hearken! through the afternoon, The grey tower sings a strange old tinkling tune! Sweet, sweet, and sad, the toiling year's last breath, Too satiate of life to strive with death. And we too—will it not be soft and kind, That rest from life, from patience and from pain, That rest from bliss we know not when we find, That rest from Love which ne’er the end can gain?— —Hark, how the tune swells, that erewhile did wane! Look up, love!—ah, cling close and never move! How can I have enough of life and love? OCTOBER drew our elders to a house, That mid the tangled vines, and clamorous Glad vintagers, stood calm, slim-pillared, white, As though it fain would hide away from sight The joy that through the sad lost autumn rung. As hot the day was, as when summer hung, With worn feet, on the last step of July, Ashamed to cast its flowery raiment by: Round the old men the white porch-pillars stood, Gold-stained, as with the sun, streaked as with blood, Blood of the earth, at least, and to and fro Before them did the high-girt maidens go, Eager, bright-eyed, and careless of tomorn; And young men with them, nowise made forlorn By love and autumn tide; and in nowise Content to pray for love with hopeless eyes, Close lips, and timid hands; rather, indeed, Lest youth and life should fail them at their need, At what light joyous semblance of him ran Amidst the vines, ’twixt eyes of maid and man, Wilfully blind they caught. But now at last, As in the apple-gathering tide late past, So would the elders do now; in a while, He who should tell the tale, with a grave smile, And eyes fixed on the fairest damsel there, p. 162 Began to say: "Ye blithe folk well might bear To hearken to a sad tale, yet to-day No heart I have to cast all hope away From out my history: so be warned hereby, Nor wait unto the end, deliciously To nurse your pity; for the end is good And peaceful, howso buffeting and rude Winds, waves, and men were, ere the end was done." The sweet eyes that his eyes were set upon Were hid by shamefast lids as he did speak, And redder colour burned on her fresh cheek, And her lips smiled, as, with a half-sad sigh, He ’gan to tell this lovesome history.