Iceland First Seen by William Morris

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 of 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 grey, / 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 grey 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 worshipped 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?