 | The Poems of Sir William Watson |  |
202
TO A GREAT POET OF A PAST ERA
Poet, thy strain, a mountain cataract, leapsFrom so remote and superhuman steeps,
It never finds the valley, but midway
Hangs beautifully lost upon the day,
In iridescence lost, in vapour spent,
Yet made immortal in evanishment.
| The Poems of Sir William Watson | |