I find the life of William Morris just as interesting as his poetry. He was entangled in the PreRaphaelite vines along with Dante Gabriel Rosetti, Burne-Jones, Swinburne and the rest. Throughout all of his dabbling interests, the legends surrounding Arthur remained consistently strong.

He was first drawn to Arthuriana when he was studying at Oxford in the mid 1800's. Tennyson's Arthur poems and Southey's version of the "Morte" were seized upon and devoured by the PreRaphaelite literary cliques. Morris preferred Malory's Guinevere to the Tennyson interpretation and that was a big influence in his later writings. He began writing his own Arthurian poetry in 1855 but seemed unable to finish his most promising works. In 1857 he worked as an artist with Rosetti and Burne-Jones on a Morte D'Arthur mural project to adorn the walls and ceiling of the Oxford Union. According to contemporary descriptions, it was a breathtakingly beautiful work in typical Victorian style resembling an ancient illuminated manuscript. The project lacked practicality, however, as the combination of humidity and gaslights quickly ruined the masterpiece.

After that adventure, Morris turned back to writing poetry. In 1858 he published "The Defence of Guinevere", a volume of poems that received discouraging reviews. To further diminish Morris' poetry, Tennyson's blockbuster "Idylls of the King" was published in the following year. This further popularized Arthuriana but it also eclipsed "The Defence of Guinevere." Or maybe Morris' volume of poetry was not well-received because it was ahead of its time. The next generation of poets, including Yeats and Pound, enthusiastically shared "The Defence of Guinevere." It was only after Morris was dead that his poetry received due recognition.

After the lukewarm reception of his poetry volume, Morris shifted the focus of his Arthurian interests to creating Tristram and Isoud in stained glass (immortalizing himself as King Mark) and then his textile company was set to work on a series of tapestries depicting scenes from the Quest of the San Graal.

In addition to his Arthurian interests, around 1865 Morris became fascinated with Icelandic myths. He made two "pilgrimages" there which resulted in his ground-breaking translations of the Icelandic sagas, which were published in 1870. Over the next two decades he also translated the Aenead and the Odyssey. Towards the end of his life, his talents were dedicated to writing several fantasy novels.

At the time of his death in 1896, he had started collaborating with Burne-Jones as illustrator for his own version of Malory's "Morte".

Morris is in so many ways a figure of frustration. He left behind a lot of unfinished works which leave us to speculate deliciously on what the endings might have been. Was he a faddish dabbler in the arts or truly deserving of acclaim? Here is a sample of his poetry. You can read more about the life and works of William Morris here and decide for yourself.


"THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS"
by William Morris

(SIR OZANA LE CURE HARDY, SIR GALAHAD, SIR BORS DE GANYS.)

SIR OZANA.

All day long and every day,
From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday,
Within that Chapel-aisle I lay,
And no man came a-near.

Naked to the waist was I,
And deep within my breast did lie,
Though no man any blood could spy,
The truncheon of a spear.

No meat did ever pass my lips
Those days. Alas! the sunlight slips
From off the gilded parclose, dips,
And night comes on apace.

My arms lay back behind my head;
Over my raised-up knees was spread
A samite cloth of white and red;
A rose lay on my face.

Many a time I tried to shout;
But as in dream of battle-rout,
My frozen speech would not well out;
I could not even weep.

With inward sigh I see the sun
Fade off the pillars one by one,
My heart faints when the day is done,
Because I cannot sleep.

Sometimes strange thoughts pass through my head;
Not like a tomb is this my bed,
Yet oft I think that I am dead;
That round my tomb is writ,

"Ozana of the hardy heart,
Knight of the Table Round,
Pray for his soul, lords, of your part;
A true knight he was found."

Ah! me, I cannot fathom it. [He sleeps.


SIR GALAHAD.

All day long and every day,
Till his madness pass'd away,
I watch'd Ozana as he lay
Within the gilded screen.

All my singing moved him not;
As I sung my heart grew hot,
With the thought of Launcelot
Far away, I ween.

So I went a little space
From out the chapel, bathed my face
In the stream that runs apace
By the churchyard wall.

There I pluck'd a faint wild rose,
Hard by where the linden grows,
Sighing over silver rows
Of the lilies tall.

I laid the flower across his mouth;
The sparkling drops seem'd good for drouth;
He smiled, turn'd round towards the south,
Held up a golden tress.

The light smote on it from the west;
He drew the covering from his breast,
Against his heart that hair he prest;
Death him soon will bless.


SIR BORS.

I enter'd by the western door;
I saw a knight's helm lying there:
I raised my eyes from off the floor,
And caught the gleaming of his hair.

I stept full softly up to him;
I laid my chin upon his head;
I felt him smile; my eyes did swim,
I was so glad he was not dead.

I heard Ozana murmur low,
"There comes no sleep nor any love."
But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow:
He shiver'd; I saw his pale lips move.


SIR OZANA.

There comes no sleep nor any love;
Ah me! I shiver with delight.
I am so weak I cannot move;
God move me to thee, dear, to-night!
Christ help! I have but little wit:
My life went wrong; I see it writ,

"Ozana of the hardy heart,
Knight of the Table Round,
Pray for his soul, lords, on your part;
A good knight he was found."

Now I begin to fathom it. [He dies.


SIR BORS.

Galahad sits dreamily;
What strange things may his eyes see,
Great blue eyes fix'd full on me?
On his soul, Lord, have mercy.


SIR GALAHAD.

Ozana, shall I pray for thee?
Her cheek is laid to thine;
No long time hence, also I see
Thy wasted fingers twine

Within the tresses of her hair
That shineth gloriously,
Thinly outspread in the clear air
Against the jasper sea.