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Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.

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
Gift
Rest
Feet
Hadst
Weary
Thou

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And though circuitous and obscureThe feet of Nemesis how sure!
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The thirst to know and understand a large and liberal discontent.
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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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Deemest thou laborOnly is earnest?Grave is all beauty,Solemn is joy.
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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.
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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.
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Empires dissolve and peoples disappear, song passes not away.
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Lord of the golden tongue and smiting eyes Great out of season and untimely wise: A man whose virtue, genius, grandeur, worth, Wrought deadlier ill than ages can undo.
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Threadbare his songs seem now, to lettered ken: They were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.
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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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Too long, that some may rest, tired millions toil unblest.
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Song is not Truth, not Wisdom, but the rose Upon Truths lips, the light in Wisdom's eyes.
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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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Fiat justitia et ruant coeli. Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall. See Ferdinand I 320:1.
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We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.
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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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Best they honor thee Who honor in thee only what is best.
William Watson
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God, eldest of Poets.
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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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