But you were living before that,
        And 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 up on the heather
        And there I put inside my breast
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather—
        Well, I forget the rest.