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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Iceland First Seen

By William Morris (1834–1896)

LO from our loitering ship

a new land at last to be seen;

Toothed rocks down the side of the firth,

on the east guard a weary wide lea,

And black slope the hillsides above,

striped adown with their desolate green:

And a peak rises up on the west

from the meeting of cloud and sea,

Foursquare from base unto point

like the building of gods that have been,—

The last of that waste of the mountains

all cloud-wreathed and snow-flecked and gray,

And bright with the dawn that began

just now at the ending of day.

Ah! what came we forth for to see,

that our hearts are so hot with desire?

Is it enough for our rest,

the sight of this desolate strand,

And the mountain waste voiceless as death

but for winds that may sleep not nor tire?

Why do we long to wend forth

through the length and breadth of a land

Dreadful with grinding of ice

and record of scarce hidden fire,

But that there ’mid the gray grassy dales

sore scarred by the ruining streams

Lives the tale of the Northland of old

and the undying glory of dreams?

O land, as some cave by the sea

where the treasures of old have been laid,

The sword it may be of a king

whose name was the turning of fight;

Or the staff of some wise of the world

that many things made and unmade;

Or the ring of a woman, maybe,

whose woe is grown wealth and delight:

No wheat and no wine grows above it,

no orchard for blossom and shade;

The few ships that sail by its blackness

but deem it the mouth of a grave;

Yet sure when the world shall awaken,

this too shall be mighty to save.

Or rather, O land, if a marvel

it seemeth that men ever sought

Thy wastes for a field and a garden

fulfilled of all wonder and doubt,

And feasted amidst of the winter

when the fight of the year had been fought,

Whose plunder all gathered together

was little to babble about,

Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou land,

“Not for this nor for that was I wrought.

Amid waning of realms and of riches

and death of things worshiped and sure,

I abide here the spouse of a God,

and I made and I make and endure.”

O Queen of the grief without knowledge,

of the courage that may not avail,

Of the longing that may not attain,

of the love that shall never forget,

More joy than the gladness of laughter

thy voice hath amidst of its wail;

More hope than of pleasure fulfilled

amidst of thy blindness is set;

More glorious than gaining of all

thine unfaltering hand that shall fail:

For what is the mark on thy brow

but the brand that thy Brynhild doth bear?

Lone once, and loved and undone

by a love that no ages outwear.

Ah! when thy Balder comes back

And bears from the heart of the sun

Peace and the healing of pain,

and the wisdom that waiteth no more;

And the lilies are laid on thy brow

’mid the crown of the deeds thou hast done;

And the roses spring up by thy feet

that the rocks of the wilderness wore:

Ah! when thy Balder comes back

and we gather the gains he hath won,

Shall we not linger a little

to talk of thy sweetness of old,

Yea, turn back awhile to thy travail

whence the Gods stood aloof to behold?