At this fair oak table sat
Whilom he our Laureate,
Poet, handicraftsman, sage,
Light of our Victorian age,
William Morris, whose art's plan
Laid its lines in ample span,
Wrought it, trestle board and rib,
With good help of Philip Webb,
For an altar of carouse
In his own home, the Red House.
Thirty years and five here he
Made good cheer and company,
Feasting all with more than bread.
Had men stored the things he said,
Jests profound and foolings wise,
Truths unliveried of lies,
Basenesses chastised and set
Like hounds slain beneath his feet,
Knowledge prodigally poured,
His best wine, at this free board;
Nay, if but the crumbs he shed
Nightly round of heart and head
Gleaned had we, not this good hall
Half the wonders might install,
Wit's wealth lost, which now must sleep
Dumb when we have ceased to weep.