Thy voice from inmost dreamland calls;
The wastes of sleep thou makest fair;
Bright o'er the ridge of darkness falls
The cataract of thy hair.
The morn renews its golden birth:
Thou with the vanquished night dost fade;
And leav'st the ponderable earth
Less real than thy shade.
More verses by William Watson
- To James Bromley With 'Wordsworth's Grave'
- The Russ At Kara
- The Princes Quest - Part The Sixth
- On Exaggerated Deference To Foreign Literary Opinion
- Ode In May