His Carpets Flowered

William Morris I —how we’re carpet-making by the river a long dream to unroll and somehow time to pole a boat I designed a carpet today— dogtooth violets and spoke to a full hall now that the gall of our society’s corruption stains throughout Dear Janey I am tossed by many things If the change would bring better art but if it would not? O to be home to sail the flood I’m possessed and do possess Employer of labor, true— to get done the work of the hand… I’d be a rich man had I yielded on a few points of principle Item sabots blouse— I work in the dye-house myself Good sport dyeing tapestry wool I like the indigo vats I’m drawing patterns so fast Last night in sleep I drew a sausage— somehow I had to eat it first Colorful shores—mouse ear... horse-mint... The Strawberry Thief our new chintz II Yeats saw the betterment of the workers by religion—slow in any case as the drying of the moon He was not understood— I rang the bell for him to sit down Yeats left the lecture circuit yet he could say: no one so well loved as Morris III Entered new waters Studied Icelandic At home last minute signs to post: Vetch grows here—Please do not mow We saw it—Iceland—the end of the world rising out of the sea— cliffs, caves like 13th century illuminations of hell-mouths Rain squalls through moonlight Cold wet is so damned wet Iceland’s black sand Stone buntings’ fly-up-dispersion Sea-pink and campion a Persian carpet