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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.

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
Virtue
Season
Eyes
Golden
Smiting
Lord
Seasons
Untimely
Age
Tongue
Undo
Eye
Whose
Wrought
Character
Genius
Grandeur
Great
Worth
Ages
Men
Wise
Ill

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Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.
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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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Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.
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April, April Laugh thy girlish laughter Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears.
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Fiat justitia et ruant coeli. Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall. See Ferdinand I 320:1.
William Watson
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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.
William Watson
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Hate and mistrust are the children of blindness.
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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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God, eldest of Poets.
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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Empires dissolve and peoples disappear, song passes not away.
William Watson
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And though circuitous and obscureThe feet of Nemesis how sure!
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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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.
William Watson
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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.
William Watson
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Deemest thou laborOnly is earnest?Grave is all beauty,Solemn is joy.
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Best they honor thee Who honor in thee only what is best.
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
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Too long, that some may rest, tired millions toil unblest.
William Watson
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The thirst to know and understand a large and liberal discontent.
William Watson