'Twas only last June month I mind that we
Was thinkin' the toss and call in the breast of the lover
So everlastin' as the sea.
Here's the same little fishies that sputter and swim,
Wi' the moon's old glim on the grey, wet sand:
An' him no more to me or me to him
Then the wind goin' over my hand.
by Charlotte Mew (1869 - 1928)
