Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke
Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton (1809–1885)Moments
I
With a world of dream without me
Shapes of shadow dance,
In wavering bands about me;
But, at times, some mystic things
Appear in this phantom lair,
That almost seem to me visitings
Of Truth known elsewhere:
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
Begun in an undertone,
Then lowered, as it would fain
Be heard by the heart alone;
A throb, when the soul is entered
By a light that is lit above,
Where the God of Nature has centered
The Beauty of Love.—
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
Which looks alone dare tell,—
When a cheek is no longer pale,
That has caught the glance, as it fell;
A touch, which seems to unlock
Treasures unknown as yet,
And the bitter-sweet first shock,
One can never forget;
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
To help the lowly-living,—
And a terrible heart-thrill,
If you have no power of giving:
An arm of aid to the weak,
A friendly hand to the friendless,
Kind words, so short to speak,
But whose echo is endless:
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
The lore of the all-wise One,
By which we could stand unburnt,
On the ridge of the seething sun:
The moment we grasp at the clue,
Long-lost and strangely riven,
Which guides our soul to the True,
And the Poet to Heaven.
The world is wide,—these things are small,—
If they be nothing, what is there at all?