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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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William Watson
Age: 77 †
Born: 1858
Born: August 2
Died: 1935
Died: August 11
Poet
Writer
Newark
Nottinghamshire
Sir William Watson
Seems
Threadbare
Heart
Worn
Men
Hearts
Songs
Poet
Seem
Song
Next
Lettered

More quotes by William Watson

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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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Too long, that some may rest, tired millions toil unblest.
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And though circuitous and obscureThe feet of Nemesis how sure!
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Empires dissolve and peoples disappear, song passes not away.
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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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Hate and mistrust are the children of blindness.
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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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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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God, eldest of Poets.
William Watson
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Best they honor thee Who honor in thee only what is best.
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We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.
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Deemest thou laborOnly is earnest?Grave is all beauty,Solemn is joy.
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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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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.
William Watson
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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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Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.
William Watson