To Homer WatsonIn the deep-verdured quietude of Doon,In a stone house we found an old, old man,Of delicate, dignified and gentle breeding.He took my hand and said: "I have been readingShelley and Keats this lovely afternoon."And spoke thus, so that I,Hearing beloved names would be less shy.But when we asked him of himself, he rolled The heavy and ungovernable weightOf years aside; showed us a dinner plate,With alphabet around the edge, and toldOf a high chair and tiny playworn boy,Who found his joyIn making pictures, even while he ate.Potato mountains rose majesticallyBeside a valley,Through which a gentle stream of gravy ran;The little manMade swans and islands, bridges, lakes, and bays,When he began to draw.Beside us, hiding all the stately walls,Stood Beauty's self, holding the eye and breath;And he among his paintings, poised, serene,A step or two from death,Behind his triumphs seeing forms unseen,And listening to a Voice, that calls... and callsSipping the wine of cherished memories,We left him 'mid the summer-scented trees.The future life must be, to such as he,Like earth-life - joy and immortality. - Ethelwyn Wetherald