Something to Remember
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,And did he stop and speak to you,And did you speak to him again?How strange it seems, and new!But you were living before that.And also you are living after,And the memory I started at—My starting moves your laughter!I crossed a moor, with a name of its ownAnd a certain use in the world, no doubt,Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone’Mid the blank miles round about:For there I picked up on the heatherAnd there I put inside my breastA moulted feather, an eagle-feather!Well, I forget the rest.
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,And did he stop and speak to you,And did you speak to him again?How strange it seems, and new!But you were living before that.And also you are living after,And the memory I started at—My starting moves your laughter!I crossed a moor, with a name of its ownAnd a certain use in the world, no doubt,Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone’Mid the blank miles round about:For there I picked up on the heatherAnd there I put inside my breastA moulted feather, an eagle-feather!Well, I forget the rest.
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,And did he stop and speak to you,And did you speak to him again?How strange it seems, and new!
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,
And did he stop and speak to you,
And did you speak to him again?
How strange it seems, and new!
But you were living before that.And also you are living after,And the memory I started at—My starting moves your laughter!
But you were living before that.
And also you are living after,
And the memory I started at—
My starting moves your laughter!
I crossed a moor, with a name of its ownAnd a certain use in the world, no doubt,Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone’Mid the blank miles round about:
I crossed a moor, with a name of its own
And a certain use in the world, no doubt,
Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone
’Mid the blank miles round about:
For there I picked up on the heatherAnd there I put inside my breastA moulted feather, an eagle-feather!Well, I forget the rest.
For there I picked up on the heather
And there I put inside my breast
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather!
Well, I forget the rest.
Robert Browning.