William Watson

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—

O be less beautiful, or be less brief.

Earth is less fragrant now, and heaven more sweet.

His friends he loved. His fellest earthly foes— Cats—I believe he did but feign to hate. My hand will miss the insinuated nose, Mine eyes the tail that wagg'd contempt at Fate.

To keep in sight Perfection, and adore The vision, is the artist's best delight; His bitterest pang, that he can ne'er do more Than keep her long'd-for loveliness in sight.

Flower-fondled, clasp'd in ivy's close caress, It seems with Nature, yet apart.

God, by the earlier sceptic, was exiled; The later is more lenient grown and mild: He sanctions God, provided you agree To any other name for deity.

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

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.

April, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears!

And, though circuitous and obscure, The feet of Nemesis how sure!