William Watson Poems

Who draws to-day the unrighteous sword?
Behold him stand, the Man Forsworn,
The warrior of the faithless word,
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The master weavers at the enchanted loom
Of Legend, weaving long ago those tales
Through which there wanders the grey thread of truth,
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Few friends are mine, though many wights there be
Who, meeting oft a phantasm that makes claim
To be myself, and hath my face and name,
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Now as it chanced, the day was almost spent
When down the lonely mountain-side he went,
The whitehaired man, the Prince that was; and ere
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So, being risen, the Prince in brief while went
Forth to the market-place, where babblement
Of them that bought and them that sold was one
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There was a time, it passeth me to say
How long ago, but sure 'twas many a day
Before the world had gotten her such store
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And passing through the city he went out
Into the fat fields lying thereabout,
And lo the spirit of the emerald stone
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A fearful and a lovely thing is Sleep,
And mighty store of secrets hath in keep;
And those there were of old who well could guess
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But Sleep, who makes a mist about the sense,
Doth ope the eyelids of the soul, and thence
Lifteth a heavier cloud than that whereby
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Even as one voice the great sea sang. From out
The green heart of the waters round about,
Welled as a bubbling fountain silverly
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