Out of your whole life give but a moment!
All of your life that has gone before,
All to come after it,—so you ignore
So you make perfect the present,—condense,
In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment,
Thought and feeling and soul and sense—
Merged in a moment which gives me at last
You around me for once, you beneath me, above me—
Me—sure that despite of time future, time past,—
This tick of our life-time's one moment you love me!
How long such suspension may linger? Ah, Sweet—
The moment eternal—just that and no more—

Out of the dusk a shadow,
Then, a spark;
Out of the cloud a silence,
Then, a lark;
Out of the heart a rapture,
Then, a pain;
Out of the dead, cold ashes,
Life again.

Out of the dusk a shadow,
Then, a spark;
Out of the cloud a silence,
Then, a lark;
Out of the heart a rapture,
Then, a pain;
Out of the dead, cold ashes,

One boy, Saint Dwyn, my bauble:
His father rues he was born!
Sorrow was bred of fondness,
Lasting pain, lacking a son.
My two sides, dead is my die,
For Siôn y Glyn are aching.
I moan everlastingly
For a baron of boyhood.

A sweet apple and a bird
The boy loved, and white pebbles,
A bow of a thorntree twig,
And swords, wooden and brittle;
Scared of pipes, scared of scarecrows,
Begging mother for a ball,
Singing to all his chanting,
Singing ‘Oo-o’ for a nut.
He would play sweet, and flatter,
And then turn sulky with me,

Once on a time, once on a time,
—Before the Dawn began,
There was a nymph of Dian's train
—Who was beloved of Pan;
Once on a time a peasant lad
—Who loved a lass at home;
Once on a time a Saxon king
—Who loved a queen of Rome.

The world has but one song to sing,
—And it is ever new,
The first and last of all the songs
—For it is ever true—
A little song, a tender song,
—The only song it hath;
“There was a youth of Ascalon
—Who loved a girl of Gath.”

A thousand thousand years have gone,
—And æons still shall pass,

Once before, this self-same air
Passed me, though I know not where.
Strange! how very like it came!
Touch and fragrance were the same;
Sound of mingled voices, too,
With a light laugh ringing through;
Some one moving,—here or there,—
Some one passing up the stair,
Some one calling from without,
Or a far-off childish shout,—
Simple, home-like, nothing more,
Yet it all hath been before!

No: not to-day, nor yesterday,
Nor any day! But far away—
So long ago, so very far,
It might have been on other star.
How was it spent? and where? and when?

On the river, the spring tides are calm.
In the boat, a day seems like a year.
No need to grow feathers or wings—
do nothing, and be an immortal!

On parent knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou satst, when all around thee smil'd;
So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep,
Calm thou mayst smile, when all around thee weep.

On a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet!
By that flower there is a bower,
Where the heavenly Muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair,
Fringed all about with gold,
Where doth sit the fairest fair
That did ever eye behold.

It is Phyllis fair and bright,
She that is the shepherds' joy;
She that Venus did despite,
And did blind her little boy.

This is she, the wise, the rich,
That the world desires to see;
This is ipsa quae the which
There is none but only she.

Who would not this face admire?

Off with your hat as the flag goes by!
—And let the heart have its say;
You're man enough for a tear in your eye
—That you will not wipe away.

You're man enough for a thrill that goes
—To your very finger-tips—
Ay! the lump just then in your throat that rose
—Spoke more than your parted lips.

Lift up the boy on your shoulder high,
—And show him the faded shred;
Those stripes would be red as the sunset sky
—If death could have dyed them red.

Off with your hat as the flag goes by!
—Uncover the youngster's head;

Oi hae come from far away,
From a warm land far away,
A southern land across the sea,
With sailor-lads about the mast,
Merry and canny, and kind to me.

And I hae been to yon town
To try my luck in yon town;
Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too.
Right braw we were to pass the gate,
Wi' gowden clasps on girdles blue.

Mysie smiled wi' miminy mouth,
Innocent mouth, miminy mouth;
Elspie wore a scarlet gown,
Nort's grey eyes were unco' gleg.
My Castile comb was like a crown.

We walk'd abreast all up the street,
Into the market up the street;