Mist-Pictures by Evelyn M. Watson

watson mist
(At the foot of the American Falls)

Through drifty silver smoke, that’s opalescent,
The soft-spun rainbows curve, each one a crescent
And we who stand, where once the hoary otter
Trailed sooty moles, behold the self-same water
And revel in the tender-tinted blur
That blows about this perpendicular
Descent these maiden-veils, so evanescent —
One feels the beautiful, our God, a-stir.
From dim concealment whips of color leap,
His many glories, powers, find voice and keep
The living spirit conscious of the deep.

The mind can pierce the past — the fragrant wood —
Each wild flower with its aureole, a snood,
In convents green that shield each sisterhood :
The tallish primrose in its shapely scone
A candle for some barren place of stone.
We see how driven drifts of spray can linger
In opal moonlight, star-companioned : finger
The budding pine tree, tipped with emerald crosses,
And underneath, the cool and long drenched mosses —
We’ve touched the tarnished rocks and silver bosses :
There seems no sadness — other songs malinger.

Again one sees a twisting vine, a rope
Of wild growth twining on a footless slope,
Men descending, English Lord, or cotter,
To catch this very view of misting water. . .
Upon our hands spilt dews, like some baptism
To honor daily idylls, heroism ;
And early Warriors with their many nations
Who gave their Mystic One their bright oblations
Of fruit and flower and youth, like ancient Stoic —
(Soul-courage may not deem itself heroic) —
And now we make ourselves our consecrations.

Within these organ-tones of color-thunder
There tides to mind an old, yet-dim wonder :
Man’s NOT the spider forever clambering down
Old causeways where forbidding rocks shall frown,
Nor yet the soldier with defiant plume. . .
(How many phantoms in this dull-green gloom) —
But here he stands so near the Farther Border
He finds in seeming chaos, love’s deep order,
Serenity behind the cataclysm,
The same sweet rainbow in each haunting prism —
In all this welter, sheerest symmetry,
And then beyond — God’s choice simplicity.
Beyond the auric smoke and dazzling dews,
Beyond these organ-tones that far diffuse
Their song, there’s ever pierceless Mystery,
For far within Man finds himself and Thee.

But there’s more beauty than’s interpreted;
(Beyond the song that’s heard, the song that’s hid,)
And if there’s Immanence within the mists
And Radiance where moon-gold weaves and twists
Strange forms for eyes, there’s greater light within
The heart of man and in the soul there’s been
Implanted Truth — oh, so imperative —
That we, in turn, are kin not fugitive
As slaves, and not idolatrous,
But His Beloved, who asks all love of us,
As mists shall hide the waters from the sight
This beauty-veil conceals, reveals, His Light.

Through drifty silver smoke, that’s opalescent,
The soft-spun rainbows curve, each one a crescent
And we, who stand where once the hoary otter
Trailed sooty moles, behold the self-same water
And revel in the tender-tinted blur
That blows about this perpendicular
Descent these maiden-veils, so evanescent
One feels the beautiful, our God, a-stir.
From dim concealment whips of color leap,
His many glories, powers, find voice and keep
The living spirit conscious of the Deep.

watson mist

Source: Evelyn M. Watson. Poems of the Niagara Frontier. New York: Dean & Company, 1929.

Click to see more poems from Watson’s Poems of the Niagara Frontier

The Indians by Evelyn M. Watson

watson indians

How can you come to boldly gape
At some red mother, in cowling cape
Who sews stiff beads on stiffer pillows —
“Souvenirs” — but here are willows,
And here the trails and paths of their feet
In regal days found sweet.

That small papoose with wrinkled chin
Now gravely offers — a moccasin,
And there a princess, with features weathered,
Wears weeds — oh, once an arrow feathered
She flashed — or rather some ancestress
In doe-skin, festal dress.

But if they offer beads, then buy,
Theirs this ancient forestry —
Theirs the windy sun-steeped willows
With roots beneath the pouring billows —
Theirs a grim regality
Chiding, chiding me.

Source: Evelyn M. Watson. Poems of the Niagara Frontier. New York: Dean & Company, 1929.

Click to see more poems from Watson’s Poems of the Niagara Frontier

A “Stop-Over” at Niagara by Evelyn M. Watson

watson stopover

Yellow trolley cars like golden pumpkins
Disgorging Cinderellas (for the day,)
And young Prince Charmings, friendly country bumpkins…
(They recently were married, do you say?)

Bright bazaars with giddy banners flying —
Basilisks, gorgons, carved, or sphinx —
And gaudy postal cards just right for lying —
And here’s a fount of rosy, foolish drinks,

Niagara Falls emblazoned on a cup ;
And, in a sugar-shell, old fashioned scenes —
Once-regal Indians now lifting up
A beaded thing, the Waterfall in greens.

The raucous hawker in the street is quelled. . .
(Administration building ? Left, sir. . . )
By that deep throbbing tone unparalleled
Authentic Voice that makes man’s pulses stir. . .

More Indians in the apses of the grove ;
The islands with their edges greenly shaded ;
And shy young couples — walking out — for love ?
Cabs and busses endlessly paraded.

The bridges where one pauses to inquire
Of very soul if eyes have seen aright ;
Sea-green, and speeding waters dripping fire —
The heavy masses slipping out of sight. . .

A far-set rocky isle by rustic bridge,
And then, within the river, one sharp jag
(Gull Island once ? It seems vast privilege
To meditate — the mightiest so brag.)

And now, again, that climax of the trip,
Observed but only to benumb the sense ;
The pouring masses ceaselessly that slip
Into dread chasms of Magnificence. . . .

Source: Evelyn M. Watson. Poems of the Niagara Frontier. New York: Dean & Company, 1929.

Click to see more poems from Watson’s Poems of the Niagara Frontier

watson stopover

Remembering Victoria Park by Evelyn M. Watson

watson remembering

Let conversation seek the Beautiful —
Rhyming bird-wings, and that so-magic poise
Of nature’s flute-song, or cello music mellow,
Green-berried vines that edge a lapping pool
Where lily-stars are doubled, white and yellow :
And let me find the day’s own cadences —
Gay frocks, that flower upon a windy line,
That old-blue plate with cakes for tea: yes, these
Amenities that seem so wise and fine :
You see, my memory holds loveliness,
For I awoke among old forestries
Where trees were as endued with consciousness
Till, now, I find fresh grace when work is hard,
And learn to live the inner poetry. . . .
Of course, not as a known, exalted bard,
But from a spirit, tree-wise, lifted Thee !

Each season, now, there’s towering luxury
In “Ceremonial trips” among small hills :
About my place I plant, each year, some tree,
(Green foil for double-gold of daffodils) —
And, for each day, a ritual — some joy,
The crisp delight of this, so tiny lawn,
And curved flower-buds that well employ
Ecstatic tints from summer’s tenderest dawn ;

And yet it seems I scarcely paused until
I went afar for beauty — then I found
The very burgeoning from homey hill,
The self-same glory from my plot of ground;
From nuded winter’s boles to Spring’s small buds,
To summer’s windy leaves that dance and quiver,
I find The Beautiful — oh ! wide green floods,
Niagara-of-the-year, from Him, the Giver ;
And, though I go each season to the Fall,
Discovering one great Beauty, find it all !

Source: Evelyn M. Watson. Poems of the Niagara Frontier. New York: Dean & Company, 1929.

Click to see more poems from Watson’s Poems of the Niagara Frontier

watson remembering

The Colorist at Niagara by Evelyn M. Watson

watson colorist

I’ve seen a heavenly despair,
An artist wrestling in prayer,
To find right colors, nicely blent
To show Niagara’s firmament,
Star-stippled, with the evening air
Stilled as if from some divine content.
And when the moon’s clear milky mist
Fell down on shadows, amethyst
And silver-blue, I’ve heard his sighs
Because such paradox defies
The reason — seems to puzzle, twist
The prying sight of Man’s too mortal eyes,
(To show, then spirit-off, the dazzling prize.)

And when the Dawn Maid brightly lifts
Her wide prismatic cup there drifts
A rose-wine tint that’s deftly played
On folded hues of lambent jade —
I’ve heard him ask for finer gifts
To fix forever sweeping gold light sprayed
Among noon’s burning shadows, speak
Of great gray gulls with open beak
And flame-edged wings that flaunt the spray
And that dread Call from far away —
“Death, too, were mine if that I seek
To fully represent the lure of Day —
Let others picture Viewless Light who may.”

The challenge of changing hours he sees,
And seasons passing among the trees,
A Processional of living tone
As lyric colors have outshone
Historic jewels — for filigrees
Of radiance have come from Him alone.
To imitate Night’s mauve, Dawn’s rose
That from the Day’s raised goblet flows
To paint this sweep of surging white,
That flowing green, this pouring light,
Is like the perilous way of those
Bewildered birds betrayed by careless sight,
Tempted too far in ecstasies of flight.

The moth that yearns the coaxing star,
Beats off its gold where gray winds are
Too grim, the teal on spray-drenched wings
Above the river, in spirallings,
Must heed, at last, that Call afar —
And so the foolish artist-heart that flings
Restraint aside and dreams to limn
Sheer color excellence — to him
Enough the tarnished-silver stone
Where tiny stars of mist are sown —
The hand must waver, even mind grow dim —
Nor is this tragedy his own — alone.

Source: Evelyn M. Watson. Poems of the Niagara Frontier. New York: Dean & Company, 1929.

Click to see more poems from Watson’s Poems of the Niagara Frontier

watson colorist

Tag: Niagara Falls

Mist-Pictures by Evelyn M. Watson

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The Indians by Evelyn M. Watson

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Remembering Victoria Park by Evelyn M. Watson

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The Colorist at Niagara by Evelyn M. Watson

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