I wish I could remember the first day，
First hour， first moment of your meeting me，
If bright or dim the season，
It might be summer or winter for aught I can say.
So unrecorded did it slip away，
So blind was I to see and foresee，
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it，
Such a day of days！
Let it come and go as traceless as a thaw of bygone snow；
It seemed to mean so little， meant so much；
If only now I could reed that touch，
First touch of hand in hand-Did one but know！