Come hither, who grow cloyed to surfeiting
With lyric draughts o'ersweet, from rills that rise
On Hybla not Parnassus mountain: come
With beakers rinsed of the dulcifluous wave
Hither, and see a magic miracle
Of happiest science, the bland Attic skies
True-mirrored by an English well;-no stream
Whose heaven-belying surface makes the stars
Reel, with its restless idiosyncrasy;
But well unstirred, save when at times it takes
Tribute of lover's eyelids, and at times
Bubbles with laughter of some sprite below.
More verses by William Watson
- Thy Voice From Inmost Dreamland Calls
- To James Bromley With 'Wordsworth's Grave'
- The Russ At Kara
- The Princes Quest - Part The Sixth
- On Exaggerated Deference To Foreign Literary Opinion