1

To Homer Watson

In 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 reading
Shelley 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 weight
Of years aside; showed us a dinner plate,
With alphabet around the edge, and told
Of a high chair and tiny playworn boy,
Who found his joy
In making pictures, even while he ate.

Potato mountains rose majestically
Beside a valley,
Through which a gentle stream of gravy ran;
The little man
Made 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 calls

Sipping 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

from: Frank E. Page. Homer Watson, Artist and Man. (Kitchener: Commercial Printing Co., 1939)