So spake the man, not able to withstandThis dumb remonstrance of the flesh, now firstThwarting the soul. Howbeit a mighty thirstConsumed him, and he crawled unto the brinkOf the clear stream hard by, that he might drinkOne draught thereof, and with the water stillHis deep desire. When lo a miracle!No sooner had he drunken than his wholeBody was changed and did from crown to soleThe likeness of its youthful self put on,The Prince of half-an-hundred years agone,Wearing the very garments that he woreWhat time his years were but a single score.
Then he remembered how that in The DreamOne told him of the marvel of that stream,Whose waters are a well of youth eterne.And night and day its crystal heart doth yearnTo wed its youthhood with the sea's old age;And faring on that bridal pilgrimage,Its waters past the shining city are rolled,And all the people drink and wax not old.
That night within the City of Youth there stoodMusicians playing to the multitudeOn many a gold and silver instrumentWhose differing souls yet chimed in glad consent.And sooth-tongued singers, throated like the birdAll darkness holds its breath to hear, were heardChanting aloud before the comely folk,Chanting aloud till none-for listening spoke,Chanting aloud that all the city rang;And whoso will may hear the song they sang:—
O happy hearts, O youths and damsels, prayWhat new and wondrous thing hath chanced to-day,O happy hearts, what wondrous thing and new?Set the gold sun with kinglier-mightful glance,Rose the maid-moon with queenlier countenance,Came the stars forth a merrier madder crew,Than ever sun or maiden-moon before,Or jostling stars that shook the darkness' floorWith night-wide tremor 'neath their dizzy dance?
Strong is the Sun, but strong alway was he;The Moon is fair, but ever fair showed she;The Stars are many, and who hath known them few?As now they be, so heretofore were they:What is the wondrous thing hath chanced to-day,O happy hearts, the wondrous thing and new,Whereof ye are glad together even moreThan of the sunlight or the moonlight orThe light o' the stars that strow the milky-way?
For all your many maidens have the headIn goodly festal wise engarlanded,With flowers at noon the banquet of the bees,And leaves that in some grove at midday grew:And ever since the falling of the dewYour streets are full of pomps and pageantries,Laughter and song, feasting and dancing:—nay,Surely some wondrous thing hath chanced to-day;O happy hearts, what wondrous thing and new?
No, no, ye need not answer any word!Heard have we all—who lives and hath not heard?—What thing the sovran Fates have done to-day;Who turn the tides of life which way they please,And sit themselves aloft, aloof, at ease:Dwellers in courts of marble silence they.No need to ask what thing the Fates have doneBetween the sunrise and the set of sun,Mute-moving in their twilight fastnesses!
Changeless, aloft, aloof, mute-moving, dim,In ancient fastnesses of twilight—himHave they not sent this day, the long-foretold,The long-foretold and much-desired, of whom'Twas whilom written in the rolls of doomHow in a dream he should this land behold,And hither come from worldwide wandering,Hither where all the folk should hail him king,Our king foredestined from his mother's womb?
Long time he tarried, but the time is past,And he hath come ye waited for, at last:The long-foretold, the much-desired, hath come.And ye command your minstrels noise abroadWith lyre and tongue your joyance and his laud,And, sooth to say, the minstrels are not dumb.And ever in the pauses of our chant,So for exceeding perfect joy ye pant,We hear the beating of your hearts applaud!
And she our Queen—ah, who shall tell what hoursShe bode his coming in her palace-towers,Unmated she in all the land alone?'Twas yours, O youths and maids, to clasp and kiss;Desiring and desired ye had your bliss:The Queen she sat upon her loveless throne.Sleeping she saw his face, but could not findIts phantom's phantom when she waked, nor windAbout her finger one gold hair of his.
Often when evening sobered all the air,No doubt but she would sit and marvel whereHe tarried, by the bounds of what strange sea;And peradventure look at intervalsForth of the windows of her palace walls,And watch the gloaming darken fount and tree;And think on twilight shores, with dreaming cavesFull of the groping of bewildered waves,Full of the murmur of their hollow halls.
As flowers desire the kisses of the rain,She his, and many a year desired in vain:She waits no more who waited long enow.Nor listeth he to wander any moreWho went as go the winds from sea to shore,From shore to sea who went as the winds go.The winds do seek a place of rest; the flowersLook for the rain; but in a while the showersCome, and the winds lie down, their wanderings o'er.
Seven moons, new moons, had eastward set their hornsAverted from the sun; seven moons, old moons,Westward their sun-averted horns had set;Since Angelo had brought his young bride home,Lucia, to queen it in his Tuscan halls.And much the folk had marvelled on that daySeeing the bride how young and fair she was,How all unlike the groom; for she had knownTwenty and five soft summers woo the world,He twice as many winters take 't by storm.And in those half-an-hundred winters,—ay,And in the summer's blaze, and blush of spring,And pomp of grave and grandiose autumntides,—Full many a wind had beat upon his heart,Of grief and frustrate hope full many a wind,And rains full many, but no rains could dampThe fuel that was stored within; which layUnlighted, waiting for the tinder-touch,Until a chance spark fall'n from Lucia's eyesKindled the fuel, and the fire was love:Not such as rises blown upon the wind,Goaded to flame by gusts of phantasy,But still, and needing no replenishment,Unquenchable, that would not be put out.
Albeit the lady Lucia's bosom lackedThe ore had made her heart a richer mineThan earth's auriferous heart unsunned; from herLove went not out, in whom there was no love.Cold from the first, her breast grew frore, and bitHer kind lord's bosom with its stinging frost.Because he loved the fields and forests, madeFew banquetings for highborn winebibbers,Eschewed the city and led no sumptuous life,She, courtly, sneered at his uncourtliness,Deeming his manners of a bygone mode.And for that he was gentle overmuch,And overmuch forbearant, she despised,Mocked, slighted, taunted him, and of her scornMade a sharp shaft to wound his life at will.She filled her cup with hate and bade him drink,And he returned it brimming o'er with love.
And so seven moons had waxed and waned since theseWere wedded. And it chanced, one morn of SpringLucia bespake her spouse in even moreUngentle wise than was her wont, and he,For the first time, reproved her;—not as oneThat having from another ta'en ill wordsWill e'en cry quits and barter words as ill;But liker as a father, whom his childWith insolent lips hath wounded, chides the childLess than he knows it had been wise to do,Saying within himself: "The time will comeWhen thou wilt think on thy dead father, howThou might'st have spoken gentlier unto himOne day, when yet thy father was alive:So shall thy heart rebuke thy heart enow:"—Ev'n thus did Angelo reprove his wife.
But though the words from his rough-bearded lipsWere like sweet water from the mouth of someRock-fountain hewn with elemental hands,They fell as water cast i' the fire, to beConsumed with hissing rage. Her wrath, let loose,Blew to and fro, and hither and thither, likeA wind that seems to have forgotten whenceIt came, and whither it was bidden blow.She cursed the kinsfolk who had willed that sheShould wed with him; and cursed herself that gaveEar to the utterance of their will; and cursedThe day on which their will became her deed:Saying—and this he knew not until now—"Fool, I should ne'er have wedded thee at all,No, neither thee nor any like to thee,Had not my father wellnigh forced me to 't."And he that hearkened, the Lord Angelo,Spake not a word, but bowed his head, and wentForth of his castle to the forest nigh,And roamed all day about the forest, filledWith grief, and marvelling at her lack of love.
But that which sorelier bruised his breast than ev'nLucia's exceeding lack of love for him,Was this new knowledge, that in taking herTo wife—in the very act of taking herTo wife—himself had crossed the secret willOf her whose will in all things it had beenHis soul's most perfect bliss to gratify.Wherefore, to make atonement, in some sort,For this one wrong he deemed that he had doneThe woman—this one crossing of her will—He knelt him down under the brooding shadeOf a huge oak, and vowed 'fore heaven a vow:To wit, that Lucia never afterwardShould in his hearing utter forth a wishFor aught of earthly but himself would seeThat wish fulfilled, if such fulfilment wereAn end that mortal man could compass. ThenUprising, he beheld the sinking sunA vast round eye gaze in upon the woodThrough leafy lattice of its nether boughs:Whereat he turned him castlewards, and ownedA lighter heart than he had borne that day.
Homeward his face no sooner had he setThan through the woods came riding unto himA stranger, of a goodly personage,Young, and right richly habited, who stayedHis horse, and greeted Angelo, and said:"I pray you, sir, direct me how to findAn hostel, if there be such hereabouts;For I have ridden far, and lost my wayAmong these woods, and twilight is at hand."Then he that heard replied to him that asked,Saying: "The nearest inn is farther henceThan mine own house; make therefore mine own houseYour inn for this one night, and unto suchPoor entertainment as my house affordsYou are most welcome." So the stranger thankedIn courtly speeches the Lord Angelo,Gladly accepting hospitalitiesThat were so gladly proffered; and the twoFared on together, host and guest that wereTo be, until they reached the castle, whereAngelo dwelt, and where his fathers livedBefore him, lords of land, in olden days.
And entering in, the castle's later lordLed the young signor to the chamber whereThe lady Lucia sat, who rose to giveThe stranger courteous welcome. (When she chose,Of looks and lips more gracious none than she.)But soon as she beheld the young man's face,A sudden pallor seized her own, and backShe started, wellnigh swooning, but regainedHer wonted self as suddenly, declared'Twas but a momentary sickness wentArrow-like through her, sharp, but therewithalBrief as the breath's one ebb and flow; and which,Passing, had left her painless as before.And truly, from that moment she appearedMore brightly beautiful, if AngeloErred not, than she had looked for many a day.
So in brief while the stranger-guest sat down,With host and hostess, to a table chargedWith delicate meats, and fragrant fruits, and wine.And when the meal was over, and themselvesWere with themselves alone—the serving-menHaving withdrawn—a cheerful converse roseConcerning divers matters old and new.And Angelo that evening let his tongueRange more at freedom than he used; for thoughNo man was less to prating given than he,Yet, when he liked his listener, he could makeHis mouth discourse in such a wise that fewHad failed to give delighted audience.For he had learning, and, besides the loreWon from his books, a better wisdom owned—A knowledge of the stuff whence books are made,The human mind and all it feeds upon.And, in his youth a wanderer, he had roamedO'er many countries, not as one who seesWith eyes alone, and hearkens but with ears;Rather as who would slake the thirst of the soulBy sucking wisdom from the breasts of the world.
Wherefore the hours flew lightly, winged with words;Till Angelo, from telling of his ownYoung days and early fortunes good and ill,Was with remembrance smitten, as it chanced,Of some old grief 'twas grief to think upon.And so he changed his theme o' the sudden, donnedA shadowy mask of laboured pleasantry,And said: "My wife, sir, hath a pretty giftOf singing and of luting: it may beIf you should let your tongue turn mendicant—Not for itself but for its needy kin,Your ears—she might be got to give an almsFor those twin brethren." Whereupon the guestUnto his hostess turned and smiling said:"That were indeed a golden alms your voiceCould well afford, and never know itselfThe poorer, being a mint of suchlike coin."And she made answer archly: "I have oftHeard flatterers of a woman's singing sayHer voice was silvery:—to compare 't with goldIs sure a new conceit. But, sir, you praiseMy singing, who have not yet heard me sing."And he: "I take it that a woman's speechIs to her singing what a bird's low chirpIs toitssinging: and if PhilomelChirp in the hearing of the woodman, heKnows 'tis the nightingale that chirps, and soExpects nought meaner than its sovereign song.Madam, 'tis thus your speaking-voice hath givenEarnest of what your singing-voice will be;And therefore I entreat you not to dashThe expectations you have raised so high,By your refusal." And she answered him:"Nay, if you think to hear a nightingale,I doubt refusal could not dash them moreThan will compliance. But in very truth,The boon you crave so small and worthless is,'Twere miserly to grudge it. Where's my lute?"
So saying, she bethought her suddenly—Or feigned to have bethought her suddenly—How she had left the lute that afternoonLying upon an arbour-seat, when sheGrew tired of fingering the strings of it—Down in the garden, where she wont to walk,Her lute loquacious to the trees' deaf trunks.And Angelo, right glad to render herSuch little graceful offices of love,And gladder yet with hope to hear her singWho had denied his asking many a time,Awaited not another word, but roseAnd said, "Myself will bring it," and beforeShe could assent or disapprove, was gone.
Scarce had he left the chamber when beholdHis wife uprose, and his young stranger-guestUprose, and in a trice they cast their armsAbout each other, kissed each other, calledEach otherdearandlove, till Lucia said:"Why cam'st thou not before, my Ugo, whomI loved, who lovedst me, for many a day,For many a paradisal day, ere yetI saw that lean fool with the grizzled beardWho's gone a-questing for his true wife's lute?"And he made answer: "I had come erenow,But that my father, dying, left a loadOf cumbrous duties I had needs perform—Dry, peevish, crabbèd business at the best,Impertinences indispensable,Accumulated dulness, if you will,Such as I would not irk your ears withal:Howbeit I came at last, and nigh a weekHave tarried in the region hereabouts,Unknown—and yearning for one glimpse of you,One word, one kiss from you, if even it wereOne only and the last; until, to-day,Roaming the neighbouring forest, I espiedYour husband, guessed it was your husband, feignedI was a traveller who had lost myselfAmong the woods, received from him—ah, nowYou laugh, and truly 'tis a famous jest—A courteous invitation to his house,Deemed it were churlish to refuse, and so—And so am here, your Ugo, with a heartThe loyal subject of your sovereign heart,As in old days." Therewith he sat him down,And softly drawing her upon his kneeMade him a zone of her lascivious arms.
But thus encinctured hardly had he satA moment, when, returning, AngeloStood at the threshold of the room, and heldThe door half opened, and so standing sawThe lovers, and they saw not him; for halfThe chamber lay in shadow, by no lampLighted, or window to admit the moon:And there the entrance was, and Angelo.
And listening to their speech a little space,The fugitive brief moments were to himA pyramid of piled eternities.For while he hearkened, Ugo said: "My love,Answer me this one question, which may seemIdle, yet is not;—how much lov'st thou me?"And she replied: "I love thee just as muchAs I do hate my husband, and no more."Then he: "But prithee how much hatest thouThy husband?" And she answered: "Ev'n as muchAs I love thee. To hate him one whit moreThan that, were past the power of Lucia's hate."And Ugo: "If thou lovest me so much,Grant me one gift in token of thy love."Then she: "What would'st thou?" And he answered her:"Even thyself; no poorer gift will I."But Lucia said: "Nay, have I not bestowedMy love, which is my soul, my richer self?My poorer self, which is my body, howCan I bestow, when 'tis not in mine ownPossession, being his property forsooth,Who holds the ecclesiastic title-deed?…Yet—but I know not … if I grant this boon,Bethink thee, how wilt carry hence the gift?Quick. For the time is all-too brief to waste."And Ugo spake with hurrying tongue: "Right so:To-morrow, therefore, when the sun hath set,Quit thou the castle, all alone, and hasteTo yonder tarn that lies amid the treesHaply a furlong westward from your house—The gloomy lakelet fringed with pines—and thereUpon the hither margin thou shalt findMe, and two with me, mounted all, and armed,With a fourth steed to bear thee on his back:And thou shalt fly with me, my Lucia, tillThou reach my castle in the mountain'd North,Whose mistress I will make thee, and mine own."Then Lucia said: "But how if AngeloPursue and overtake us?" WhereuponUgo replied: "Pursue he may,—o'ertakeHe shall not, save he saddle him the wind.Besides—to grant the impossible—if heWereto o'ertake us, he could only striveTo win you back with argument; whereinMy servants, at their master's bidding, couldDebate with him on more than equal terms:Cold steel convinces warmest disputants.Or, if to see the bosom maritalImpierced, would make your own consorted heartBleed sympathetic, some more mild—" But she,The beauteous Fury, interrupted himWith passionate-pallid lips: "Reproach me notBeforehand—even in jest reproach me not—With imputation of such tendernessForhimandhislife—when thou knowest howI hate, hate, hate him,—when thou knowest howI wish, and wish, and wish, that he were dead."
Then Angelo bethought him of his vow;And stepping forward stood before the twain;And from his girdle plucked a dagger forth;And spake no word, but pierced his own heart through.
I asked of heaven and earth and sea,Saying: "O wondrous trinity,Deign to make answer unto me,And tell me truly what ye be."And they made answer: "Verily,The mask before His face are we,Because 'tis writ no man can seeHis face and live;"—so spake the three.Then I: "O wondrous trinity,A mask is but a mockery—Make answer yet again to meAnd tell if aught besides are ye."And they made answer: "Verily,The robe around His form are we,That sick and sore mortalityMay touch its hem and healèd be."Then I: "O wondrous trinity,Vouchsafe once more to answer me,And tell me truly, what is HeWhose very mask and raiment ye?"But they replied: "Of Time are we,And of Eternity is He.Wait thou, and ask Eternity;Belike his mouth shall answer thee."
As drones a bee with sultry humWhen all the world with heat lies dumb,Thou dronest through the drowsèd lea,To lose thyself and find the sea.
As fares the soul that threads the gloomToward an unseen goal of doom,Thou farest forth all witlessly,To lose thyself and find the sea.
My soul is such a stream as thou,Lapsing along it heeds not how;In one thing only unlike thee,—Losing itself, it finds no sea.
Albeit I know a day shall comeWhen its dull waters will be dumb;And then this river-soul of Me,Losing itself, shall find the sea.
Last night the seawind was to meA metaphor of liberty,And every wave along the beachA starlit music seemed to be.
To-day the seawind is to meA fettered soul that would be free,And dumbly striving after speechThe tides yearn landward painfully.
To-morrow how shall sound for meThe changing voice of wind and sea?What tidings shall be borne of each?What rumour of what mystery?
Westward a league the city lay, with oneCloud's imminent umbrage o'er it: when behold,The incendiary sunDropped from the womb o' the vapour, rolled'Mongst huddled towers and temples, 'twixt them setInfinite ardour of candescent gold,Encompassed minaretAnd terrace and marmoreal spireWith conflagration: roofs enfurnaced, yetUnmolten,—columns and cupolas flanked with fire,Yet standing unconsumedOf the fierce fervency,—and higherThan all, their fringes goldenly illumed,Dishevelled clouds, like massed empurpled smokeFrom smouldering forges fumed:Till suddenly the bright spell brokeWith the sun sinking through some palace-floorAnd vanishing wholly. Then the city woke,Her mighty Fire-Dream o'er,As who from out a sleep is raisedOf terrible loveliness, lasting hardly moreThan one most monumental moment; dazedHe looketh, having comeForth of one world and witless gazedInto another: ev'n so looked, for someBrief while, the city—amazed, immobile, dumb.
Wave and wind and willow-treeSpeak a speech that no man knoweth;Tree that sigheth, wind that bloweth,Wave that floweth to the sea:Wave and wind and willow-tree.
Peerless perfect poets ye,Singing songs all songs excelling,Fine as crystal music dwellingIn a welling fountain free:Peerless perfect poets three!
Wave and wind and willow-treeKnow not aught of poets' rhyming,Yet they make a silver-chimingSunward-climbing minstrelsy,Soother than all songs that be.
Blows the wind it knows not why,Flows the wave it knows not whither,And the willow swayeth hitherSwayeth thither witlessly,Nothing knowing save to sigh.
I know not if they erredWho thought to seeThe tale of all the times to be,Star-character'd;I know not, neither care,If fools or knaves they were.
But this I know: last nightOn me there shoneTwo starsthat made all stars look wanAnd shamèd quite,Wherefrom the soul of meDivined her destiny.
I made a little song about the roseAnd sang it for the rose to hear,Nor ever marked until the music's closeA lily that was listening near.
The red red rose flushed redder with delight,And like a queen her head she raised.The white white lily blanched a paler white,For anger that she was not praised.
Turning I left the rose unto her pride,The lily to her enviousness,And soon upon the grassy ground espiedA daisy all companionless.
Doubtless no flattered flower is this, I deemed;And not so graciously it grewAs rose or lily: but methought it seemedMore thankful for the sun and dew.
Dear love, my sweet small flower that grew'st amongThe grass, from all the flowers apart,—Forgive me that I gave the rose my song,Ere thou, the daisy, hadst my heart!
Lo, thou and I, my love,And the sad stars above,—Thou and I, I and thou!Ah could we lie as nowEver and aye, my love,Hand within hand, my love,Heart within heart, my dove,Through night and dayFor ever!
Lo, thou and I, my love,Up in the sky above,Where the sun makes his homeAnd the gods are, my love,One day may wander fromStar unto star, my love,—Soul within soul, my love,Yonder afarFor ever!
Lo, thou and I, my love,Some time shall lie, my love,Knowing not night from day,Knowing not toil from rest,—Breast unto breast, my love,Even as now for aye:Clay within clay, my love,Clay within clayFor ever!
Love cometh and love goeth,And he is wise who knowethWhither and whence love flies:But wise and yet more wiseAre they that heed not whence he flies or whitherWho hither speeds to-day, to-morrow thither;Like to the wind that as it listeth blows,And man doth hear the sound thereof, but knowsNor whence it comes nor whither yet it goes.
O sweet my sometime loved and worshipt oneA day thou gavest meThat rose full-orbed in starlike happinessAnd lit our heaven that other stars had none:—Sole as that westering sphere companionlessWhen twilight is begunAnd the dead sun transfigureth the sea:A day so brightMethought the very shadow, from its lightThrown, were enough to bless(Albeit with but a shadow's benison)The unborn days its dark posterity.Methought our love, though dead, should beFair as in life, by memoryEmbalmed, a rose with bloom for aye unblown.But lo the forest is with faded leavesAnd our two hearts with faded loves bestrown,And in mine ear the weak wind grievesAnd uttereth moan:"Shed leaves and fallen, fallen loves and shed,And those are dead and these are more than dead;And those have knownThe springtime, these the lovetime, overthrown,With all fair times and pleasureful that be."And shall not we, O Time, and shall not weThy strong self seeBrought low and vanquishèd,And made to bow the kneeAnd bow the headTo one that is when thou and thine are fled,The silent-eyed austere Eternity?
Behold a new song still the lark doth singEach morning when he riseth from the grass,And no man sigheth for the song that was,The melody that yestermorn did bring.The rose dies and the lily, and no man mournsThat nevermore the selfsame flower returns:For well we know a thousand flowers will spring,A thousand birds make music on the wing.Ay me! fair things and sweet are birds and flowers,The scent of lily and rose in gardens still,The babble of beakèd mouths that speak no ill:And love is sweeter yet than flower or bird,Or any odor smelled or ditty heard—Love is another and a sweeter thing.But when the music ceaseth in Love's bowers,Who listeneth well shall hear the silence stirredWith aftermoan of many a fretful string:For when Love harpeth to the hollow hours,His gladdest notes make saddest echoing.
As one whose eyes have watched the stricken daySwoon to its crimson death adown the sea,Turning his face to eastward suddenlySees a lack-lustre world all chill and gray,—Then, wandering sunless whitherso he may,Feels the first dubious dumb obscurity,And vague foregloomings of the Dark to be,Close like a sadness round his glimmering way;So I, from drifting dreambound on and onAbout strange isles of utter bliss, in seasWhose waves are unimagined melodies,Rose and beheld the dreamless world anew:Sad were the fields, and dim with splendours goneThe strait sky-glimpses fugitive and few.
O Master, if immortals suffer aughtOf sadness like to ours, and in like sighsAnd with like overflow of darkened eyesDisburden them, I know not; but methought,What time to day mine ear the utterance caughtWhereby in manifold melodious wiseThy heart's unrestful infelicitiesRose like a sea with easeless winds distraught,That thine seemed angel's grieving, as of oneStrayed somewhere out of heaven, and utteringLone moan and alien wail: because he hathFailed to remember the remounting path,And singing, weeping, can but weep and singEver, through vasts forgotten of the sun.
God-seeking thou hast journeyed far and nigh.On dawn-lit mountain-tops thy soul did yearnTo hear His trailing garments wander by;And where 'mid thunderous glooms great sunsets burn,Vainly thou sought'st His shadow on sea and sky;Or gazing up, at noontide, could'st discernOnly a neutral heaven's indifferent eyeAnd countenance austerely taciturn.
Yet whom thou soughtest I have found at last;Neither where tempest dims the world belowNor where the westering daylight reels aghastIn conflagrations of red overthrow:But where this virgin brooklet silvers past,And yellowing either bank the king-cups blow.
Drifting through vacant spaces vast of sleep,One overtook me like a flying starAnd whirled me onward in his glistering car.From shade to shade the wingèd steeds did leap,And clomb the midnight like a mountain-steep;Till that vague world where men and women are,Ev'n as a rushlight down the gulfs afar,Paled and went out, upswallowed of the deep.
Then I to that ethereal charioteer:"O whither through the vastness are we bound?O bear me back to yonder blinded sphere!"Therewith I heard the ends of night resound;And, wakened by ten thousand echoes, foundThat far-off planet lying all-too near.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Poems of William Watson, by William Watson