A curlew flew past me, borne out of the darkness, and its cry made me feel sad and shiver.

It might have been the man's soul which wished to look upon the light again.

Then the sun sank, and there was no light, only the wind moaning, and far, far away the sad cry of the curlew." This description was simple and unpolished as it was short.

Yet it impressed the mind of Morris, and its curious allegorical note appealed to his imagination.

The grey moss broken by stagnant pools, lonesome and primeval; the dreary pipe of the wildfowl, the red and angry sun fronting the gloom of advancing, oblivious night; the solitary traveller, wind-buffeted, way-worn, aged, heavy-laden, fulfilling the last stage of his appointed journey to a realm of sleep and shadow.