Epigrams Of Art Life And Nature Author:William Watson Thou dost but flit, my merle from tree to tree, While on the heights of morn the lark is loud. . Thou hast no wish thy native world to flee, Knowing the star is far, and dense the cloud. In youth the artist voweth lovers vows To Art, in manhood maketh her his spouse. Well if her charms yet hold for him such joy As when he craved some boon and sh... more »e was coy The Poet gathers fruit from every tree, Yea, grapes from thorns and figs from thistles he. Pluckd by his hand, the basest weed that grows Towers to a lily, reddens to a rose.Here Love the slain with Love the slayer lies Deep drownd are both in the same sunless pool. Up from its depths that mirror thundering skies Bubbles the wan mirth of the mirthless Fool. Too avid of earths bliss, he was of those Whom Delight flies because they give her chase. Only the odour of her wild hair blows Back in their faces hungering for her face. Tis human fortunes happiest height, to be A spirit melodious, lucid, poised, and whole Second in order of felicity I hold it, to have walkd with such a soulI close your Marlowes page, my Shaksperes ope. How welcome-after gong and cymbals din-The continuity, the long slow slope And vast curves of the gradual violin A great star stoopd from heaven and loved a flower Grown in earths garden-loved it for an hour Let eyes which trace his orbit in the spheres Refuse not, to a ruind rosebud, tears. IX. What holds her fixd far eyes nor lets them range Not the strange sea, strange earth, or heaven more strange I But her own phantom dwarfing these great three, More strange than all, more old than heaven, earth, sea. To Art we go as to a well, athirst, And drinking see our shadow, and the skys, But wholly neath the water must be mersd To clasp the naiad Truth where low she lies. The beasts in field are glad, and have not wit To know why leapd their hearts when springtime shone. Man looks at his own bliss, considers it, Weighs it with curious fingers and tis gone. 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. Time, the extortioner, from richest beauty Takes heavy toll and wrings rapacious duty. Austere of feature if thou carve thy rhyme, Perchance twill pay the lesser tax to Time.« less