The Presentation

By Sir Henry Newbolt

When in the womb of Time our souls’ own son

Dear Love lay sleeping till his natal hour,

Long months I knew not that sweet life begun,

Too dimly treasuring thy touch of power;

And wandering all those days

By far-off ways,

Forgot immortal seed must have immortal flower.

Only, beloved, since my beloved thou art

I do remember, now that memory's vain,

How twice or thrice beneath my beating heart

Life quickened suddenly with proudest pain.

Then dreamed I Love's increase,

Yet held my peace

Till I might render thee thy own great gift again.

For as with bodies, so with souls it is,

The greater gives, the lesser doth conceive:

That thou hast fathered Love, I tell thee this,

And by my pangs beseech thee to believe.

Look on his hope divine —

Thy hope and mine —

Pity his outstretched hands, tenderly him receive!