Last June I saw your face three times;

Three times I touched your hand;

Now, as before, May month is o’er,

And June is in the land.

O many Junes shall come and go,

Flow’r-footed o’er 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.