William Morris, his homes and haunts . about it, yet I assure you that thecharm is there; so much has the old house grown up outof the soil and the lives of those that lived on it, somethin thread of tradition, a half anxious sense of the de-light of meadow and acre and wood and river; a certainamount (not too much let us hope) of common sense, aliking for making materials serve ones turn, and perhapsat bottom some grain of sentiment:—this I think waswhat went to the making of the old house. Until 1874 Morris shared this house with Rossetti;and Mr. Ellis took his place as joint-tenant for seve
William Morris, his homes and haunts . about it, yet I assure you that thecharm is there; so much has the old house grown up outof the soil and the lives of those that lived on it, somethin thread of tradition, a half anxious sense of the de-light of meadow and acre and wood and river; a certainamount (not too much let us hope) of common sense, aliking for making materials serve ones turn, and perhapsat bottom some grain of sentiment:—this I think waswhat went to the making of the old house. Until 1874 Morris shared this house with Rossetti;and Mr. Ellis took his place as joint-tenant for severalyears. It was, says Mr. Mackail, the haven of rest towhich he always returned with a fresh and deep seasons there were alike sweet to him. It is strangehow he divided this love with the hard-working life ofLondon. He writes in one letter: * I rather want tobe in London again, for I feel as if my time were pass-ing with too little done in the country; altogether, Ifear I am a London bird ; its soot has been rubbed into. , \ > H > ffi H 12 hZ4 < c s 0 o j c 1 _o OS O . Z ;5 < n ^- (U f^ a. O o O CO o S 4= hJ bl rt t^ SJ THE MAN OF LETTERS 26 me, and even these autumn mornings cant wash meclean of restlessness. The next few years witnessed a burst of activity inliterature and manuscript writing and illuminating. holds that the Omar Khayyam book ^ is one ofthe great masterpieces of his life. He lavished upon it allthe intense love of beauty of detail which he impressedon all his work of every shape and form. This beauty wasnow expressing itself in his greatest longer poem, ** Loveis Enough, which was published in 1872. The domi-nant note is the all-supremacy of Love over every humandesire: the King Pharamond gives up his throne, thathe may content himself with the damsel Azalais. It isa riotous ecstasy of Love: and its lines have a honeyedmelody which Morris never again equalled, perhaps: Love is Enough : while ye deemed him a-sleeping,There
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