Memorabilia

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 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 upon the heather

And there I put inside my breast

A moulted feather, an eagle-feather!

Well, I forget the rest.