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 to 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 or days! I let if come and go
As traceless to mean so little, meant so much!
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand! Did one but know!
-CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (1830-94)
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