 | A Sonnet Chronicle |  |
52
To G. F. Watts, R.A.
On his 87th Birthday—Feb. 23rd, 1904.
When the “white maids of February” spring,
When catkins hang and lime-buds flush and swell,
I found within his fir-girt citadel,
Upon his painter's throne, the painter king:
Time had no power to harm, he felt no sting
Of praise or blame, and still upon him fell
Voices from Heaven, and bade his canvas tell
Heart's love, high thought, and soul's imagining.
When catkins hang and lime-buds flush and swell,
I found within his fir-girt citadel,
Upon his painter's throne, the painter king:
Time had no power to harm, he felt no sting
Of praise or blame, and still upon him fell
Voices from Heaven, and bade his canvas tell
Heart's love, high thought, and soul's imagining.
And in that presence-chamber I was ware
Of angel powers that had no mortal birth—
Hope with her ear down-bended to attend
The far-off cries of all our painful earth,
And Love that led Life up the mountain stair,
And mighty Death, man's most compassionate friend.
Of angel powers that had no mortal birth—
Hope with her ear down-bended to attend
The far-off cries of all our painful earth,
And Love that led Life up the mountain stair,
And mighty Death, man's most compassionate friend.
| A Sonnet Chronicle | |