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OLDER than the hills, older than the sea,
Older than the heart of the Spring,
O, what is this that breaks
From the blind shell, wakes,
Wakes, and is gone like a wing?
Older than the sea, older than the moon,
Older than the heart of the May,
What is this blind refrain
Of a song that shall remain
When the singer is long gone away?
Older than the moon, older than the stars,
Older than the wind in the night,—
Though the young dews are sweet
On the heather at our feet
And the blue hills laughing back the light,—
Till the stars grow young, till the hills grow young,
O, Love, we shall walk through Time,
Till we round the world at last,
And the future be the past,
And the winds of Eden greet us from the prime.
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