Amy Levy


Last June I saw your face three times;
Three times I touched your hand;
Now, as before, May month is oer,
And June is in the land.

O many Junes shall come and go,
Flowr-footed oer the mead;
O many Junes for me, to whom
Is length of days decreed.

There shall be sunlight, scent of rose;
Warm mist of summer rain;
Only this change--I shall not look
Upon your face again.

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