by John Vance Cheney

John Vance Cheney

One whitest lily, reddest rose,

None other such the summer knows;

Of bird or brook one perfect tune,

And sung is all the sweet of June.

Once come and gone, the one dear face,

Forever empty is its place;

But one far voice the lover hears,

Calling across the waste of years.

Last updated January 14, 2019