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William Morris - Riding Together
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For many, many days together
      The wind blew steady from the East;
    For many days hot grew the weather,
      About the time of our Lady`s Feast.

     For many days we rode together,
      Yet met we neither friend nor foe;
    Hotter and clearer grew the weather,
      Steadily did the East wind blow.

     We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather,
     Clear-cut, with shadows very black,
   As freely we rode on together
     With helms unlaced and bridles slack.

    And often, as we rode together,
     We, looking down the green-bank`d stream,
   Saw flowers in the sunny weather,
     And saw the bubble-making bream.

    And in the night lay down together,
     And hung above our heads the rood,
   Or watch`d night-long in the dewy weather,
     The while the moon did watch the wood.

    Our spears stood bright and thick together,
     Straight out the banners stream`d behind,
   As we gallop`d on in the sunny weather,
     With faces turn`d towards the wind.

    Down sank our threescore spears together,
     As thick we saw the pagans ride;
   His eager face in the clear fresh weather,
     Shone out that last time by my side.

    Up the sweep of the bridge we dash`d together,
     It rock`d to the crash of the meeting spears,
   Down rain`d the buds of the dear spring weather,
     The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.

    There, as we roll`d and writhed together,
     I threw my arms above my head,
   For close by my side, in the lovely weather,
     I saw him reel and fall back dead.

    I and the slayer met together,
     He waited the death-stroke there in his place,
   With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather,
     Gapingly mazed at my madden`d face.

    Madly I fought as we fought together;
     In vain: the little Christian band
   The pagans drown`d, as in stormy weather
     The river drowns low-lying land.

    They bound my blood-stain`d hands together,
     They bound his corpse to nod by my side:
   Then on we rode, in the bright March weather,
     With clash of cymbals did we ride.

    We ride no more, no more together;
     My prison-bars are thick and strong,
   I take no heed of any weather,
     The sweet Saints grant I live not long.
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