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Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.

William Watson

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William Watson
Age: 77 †
Born: 1858
Born: August 2
Died: 1935
Died: August 11
Poet
Writer
Newark
Nottinghamshire
Sir William Watson
Arrogant
Braying
Querulous
Whimper
Reeds
Brass

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We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.
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Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.
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O ye by wandering tempest sown 'Neath every alien star, Forget not whence the breath was blown That wafted you afar! For ye are still her ancient seed On younger soil let fall— Children of Britain's island-breed, To whom the Mother in her need Perchance may one day call.
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Fiat justitia et ruant coeli. Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall. See Ferdinand I 320:1.
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On from room to room I stray,Yet mine Host can ne'er espy,And I know not to this day,Whether guest or captive I.
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April, April Laugh thy girlish laughter Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears.
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And though circuitous and obscureThe feet of Nemesis how sure!
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In this world with starry dome,Floored with gemlike plains and seas,Shall I never feel at home,Never wholly be at ease?
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The thirst to know and understand a large and liberal discontent.
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Deemest thou laborOnly is earnest?Grave is all beauty,Solemn is joy.
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His friends he loved. His direst earthly foe - Cats-I believe he did but feign to hate. My hand will miss the insinuated nose, Mine eyes the tail that wagged contempt at Fate.
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Best they honor thee Who honor in thee only what is best.
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He saw wan Woman toil with famished eyes He saw her bound, and strove to sing her free. He saw her fall'n and wrote The Bridge of Sighs And on it crossed to immortality.
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A dreamer of the common dreams, A fisher in familiar streams, He chased the transitory gleams That all pursue But on his lips the eternal themes Again were new.
William Watson
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The after-silence, when the feast is o'er,And void the places where the minstrels stood,Differs in nought from what hath been before,And is nor ill nor good.
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Personally, I do not believe that we shall have greater armaments in the future than we have had in the past. On the contrary, I believe there will be a gradual diminution in this respect.
William Watson
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God, eldest of Poets.
William Watson
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Threadbare his songs seem now, to lettered ken: They were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.
William Watson
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Song is not Truth, not Wisdom, but the rose Upon Truths lips, the light in Wisdom's eyes.
William Watson
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She is not old, she is not young, The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue. The haggard cheek, the hungering eye, The poisoned words that wildly fly, The famished face, the fevered hand, Who slights the worthiest in the land, Sneers at the just, contemns the brave, And blackens goodness in its grave.
William Watson