Had she come all the way for this, To part at last without a kiss? Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain That her own eyes might see him slain Beside … - William Morris

Slayer of the Winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bring'st the Summer nigh! The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, Telling a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay, Lulled by the singer of an empty day.

So on he went, and on the way he thought Of all the glorious things of yesterday, Nought of the price whereat they must be bought, But ever to himself did softly say "No roaming now, my wars are passed away, No long dull days devoid of happiness, When such a love my yearning heart shall bless."