C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

From ‘Wordsworth’s Grave’

From ‘The Poems of William Watson’ (2 vols.)

POET who sleepest by this wandering wave!

When thou wast born, what birth-gift hadst thou then?

To thee what wealth was that the Immortals gave,

The wealth thou gavest in thy turn to men?

Not Milton’s keen, translunar music thine;

Not Shakespeare’s cloudless, boundless human view;

Not Shelley’s flush of rose on peaks divine;

Nor yet the wizard twilight Coleridge knew.

What hadst thou that could make so large amends

For all thou hadst not and thy peers possessed,

Motion and fire, swift means to radiant ends?—

Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.

From Shelley’s dazzling glow or thunderous haze,

From Byron’s tempest-anger, tempest-mirth,

Men turned to thee and found—not blast and blaze,

Tumult of tottering heavens, but peace on earth.

Not peace that grows by Lethe, scentless flower,

There in white languors to decline and cease;

But peace whose names are also rapture, power,

Clear sight, and love: for these are parts of peace.