KELMSCOTT HOUSE 
as others love the race of man through their lovers or their children, 
so I love the earth through that small space of it.” 
Again: ‘““Ome! Ome! How I love the earth, and the seasons, 
and weather and all things that deal with it, and all that grows out 
of it—as this has done! The earth and the growth of it, and the 
life of it. If I could but say and show how I love it!” 
He did say it in his poetry, he did show it in his art; for, just: as 
all his decorative designs have their origin in natural forms, so, too, 
his narrative poetry is highly picturesque and descriptive of Nature. 
But though all the world to him was, indeed, an “‘ earthly Paradise,” 
he loved his native land best, and next to it, Iceland and Scandi- 
navia, and he never really got far away from England and the North. 
What could be more English in description and sentiment than the 
following lines, taken, almost at random, from the “ Story of 
Rhodope ”’ in ‘‘ The Earthly Paradise ” ? : 
6e 
March was it, but a foretaste of the June 
The earth had, and the budding linden-grove 
About the homestead, with the brown bird’s tune 
Was happy, and the faint blue sky above 
The black-thorn blossoms made meet roof for love, 
For though the South wind breathed a thought of rain, 
No cloud as yet its golden breadth did stain.” 
If we substitute for the words “ linden-grove”’ their English 
equivalent, ‘‘ an avenue of limes,’’ we have a very true picture of 
an early English spring. Yet Rhodope was a “‘ Grecian-speaking ”’ 
maiden, dwelling in the sunny south. When Morris was in Italy 
he expressed his admiration for the wondrous beauty of St. Mark’s 
at Venice, but he found a visit to Torcello, ‘‘ where he was once more 
among the hedges and green grass and singing birds, a great rest.”’ 
Indeed, he was never really happy away from green pastures 
and brown earth, and both the decadence and restorations of the 
silent water city, grieved him and weighed upon his spirits, which 
only rose when he went on to Padua and Verona. The truth was, 
that his heart was in the thirteenth century, and that he delighted 
in medizvalism and all things Gothic; ancient and Renascent art 
having for him but little attraction. 
All the same, whether founded on classic or Scandinavian Stories: 
every page in his long narrative poems—written always in felicitous 
language—offers a subject to painters, but whereas he excels in 
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