Poem by William Watson

* * *

And these—are these indeed the end,
  This grinning skull, this heavy loam?
Do all green ways whereby we wend
  Lead but to yon ignoble home?

Ah well! Thine eyes invite to bliss;
  Thy lips are hives of summer still.
I ask not other worlds while this
  Proffers me all the sweets I will.

1. To a Friend
2. Well He Slumbers, Greatly Slain
3. The Russ at Kara
4. Liberty Rejected
5. On Exaggerated Deference to Foreign Literary Opinion

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