The Poems of William Watson Part 8

I pluck'd this flower, O brighter flower, for thee, There where the river dies into the sea.

To kiss it the wild west wind hath made free: Kiss it thyself and give it back to me.

To be as this old elm full loth were I, That shakes in the autumn storm its palsied head.

Hewn by the weird last woodman let me lie Ere the path rustle with my foliage shed.

Ah, vain, thrice vain in the end, thy hate and rage, And the shrill tempest of thy clamorous page.

True poets but transcendent lovers be, And one great love-confession poesy.

His rhymes the poet flings at all men's feet, And whoso will may trample on his rhymes.

Should Time let die a song that's true and sweet, The singer's loss were more than match'd by Time's.

ON LONGFELLOW'S DEATH

No puissant singer he, whose silence grieves To-day the great West's tender heart and strong; No singer vast of voice: yet one who leaves His native air the sweeter for his song.

BYRON THE VOLUPTUARY

Too avid of earth's bliss, he was of those Whom Delight flies because they give her chase.

Only the odour of her wild hair blows Back in their faces hungering for her face.

ANTONY AT ACTIUM

He holds a dubious balance:--yet _that_ scale, Whose freight the world is, surely shall prevail?

No; Cleopatra droppeth into _this_ One counterpoising orient sultry kiss.

ART

The thousand painful steps at last are trod, At last the temple's difficult door we win; But perfect on his pedestal, the G.o.d Freezes us hopeless when we enter in.

KEATS

He dwelt with the bright G.o.ds of elder time, On earth and in their cloudy haunts above.

He loved them: and in recompense sublime, The G.o.ds, alas! gave him their fatal love.

AFTER READING "TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT"

Your Marlowe's page I close, my Shakspere's ope.

How welcome--after gong and cymbal's din-- The continuity, the long slow slope And vast curves of the gradual violin!

Sh.e.l.lEY AND HARRIET WESTBROOK

A star look'd down from heaven and loved a flower Grown in earth's garden--loved it for an hour:

Let eyes that trace his...o...b..t in the spheres Refuse not, to a ruin'd rosebud, tears.

THE PLAY OF "KING LEAR"

Here Love the slain with Love the slayer lies; Deep drown'd are both in the same sunless pool.

Up from its depths that mirror thundering skies Bubbles the wan mirth of the mirthless Fool.

TO A POET

Time, the extortioner, from richest beauty Takes heavy toll and wrings rapacious duty.

Austere of feature if thou carve thy rhyme, Perchance 'twill pay the lesser tax to Time.

THE YEAR'S MINSTRELSY

Spring, the low prelude of a lordlier song: Summer, a music without hint of death: Autumn, a cadence lingeringly long: Winter, a pause;--the Minstrel-Year takes breath.

THE RUINED ABBEY

Flower fondled, clasp'd in ivy's close caress, It seems allied with Nature, yet apart:-- Of wood's and wave's insensate loveliness The glad, sad, tranquil, pa.s.sionate, human heart.

MICHELANGELO'S "MOSES"

The captain's might, and mystery of the seer-- Remoteness of Jehovah's colloquist, Nearness of man's heaven-advocate--are here: Alone Mount Nebo's harsh foreshadow is miss'd.