The Poems of William Watson Part 7

The Poet gathers fruit from every tree, Yea, grapes from thorns and figs from thistles he.

Pluck'd by his hand, the basest weed that grows Towers to a lily, reddens to a rose.

Brook, from whose bridge the wandering idler peers To watch thy small fish dart or cool floor s.h.i.+ne, I would that bridge whose arches all are years Spann'd not a less transparent wave than thine!

To Art we go as to a well, athirst, And see our shadow 'gainst its mimic skies, But in its depth must plunge and be immersed To clasp the naiad Truth where low she lies.

In youth the artist voweth lover's vows To Art, in manhood maketh her his spouse.

Well if her charms yet hold for him such joy As when he craved some boon and she was coy!

Immured in sense, with fivefold bonds confined, Rest we content if whispers from the stars In waftings of the incalculable wind Come blown at midnight through our prison-bars.

Love, like a bird, hath perch'd upon a spray For thee and me to hearken what he sings.

Contented, he forgets to fly away; But hus.h.!.+... remind not Eros of his wings.

Think not thy wisdom can illume away The ancient tanglement of night and day.

Enough, to acknowledge both, and both revere: They see not clearliest who see all things clear.

In mid whirl of the dance of Time ye start, Start at the cold touch of Eternity, And cast your cloaks about you, and depart: The minstrels pause not in their minstrelsy.

The beasts in field are glad, and have not wit To know why leapt their hearts when springtime shone.

Man looks at his own bliss, considers it, Weighs it with curious fingers; and 'tis gone.

Momentous to himself as I to me Hath each man been that ever woman bore; Once, in a lightning-flash of sympathy, I _felt_ this truth, an instant, and no more.

The G.o.ds man makes he breaks; proclaims them each Immortal, and himself outlives them all: But whom he set not up he cannot reach To shake His cloud-dark sun-bright pedestal.

The children romp within the graveyard's pale; The lark sings o'er a madhouse, or a gaol;-- Such nice ant.i.theses of perfect poise Chance in her curious rhetoric employs.

Our lithe thoughts gambol close to G.o.d's abyss, Children whose home is by the precipice.

Fear not thy little ones shall o'er it fall: Solid, though viewless, is the girdling wall.

Lives there whom pain hath evermore pa.s.s'd by And Sorrow shunn'd with an averted eye?

Him do thou pity, him above the rest, Him of all hapless mortals most unbless'd.

Say what thou wilt, the young are happy never.

Give me bless'd Age, beyond the fire and fever,-- Past the delight that shatters, hope that stings, And eager flutt'ring of life's ignorant wings.

Onward the chariot of the Untarrying moves; Nor day divulges him nor night conceals; Thou hear'st the echo of unreturning hooves And thunder of irrevocable wheels.

A deft musician does the breeze become Whenever an aeolian harp it finds: Hornpipe and hurdygurdy both are dumb Unto the most musicianly of winds.

I follow Beauty; of her train am I: Beauty whose voice is earth and sea and air; Who serveth, and her hands for all things ply; Who reigneth, and her throne is everywhere.

Toiling and yearning, 'tis man's doom to see No perfect creature fas.h.i.+on'd of his hands.

Insulted by a flower's immaculacy, And mock'd at by the flawless stars he stands.

For metaphors of man we search the skies, And find our allegory in all the air.

We gaze on Nature with Narcissus-eyes, Enamour'd of our shadow everywhere.

One music maketh its occult abode In all things scatter'd from great Beauty's hand; And evermore the deepest words of G.o.d Are yet the easiest to understand.

Enough of mournful melodies, my lute!

Be henceforth joyous, or be henceforth mute.

Song's breath is wasted when it does but fan The smouldering infelicity of man.