WHAT spiteful chance steals unawares Wherever lovers come, And trips the nimblest brain and scares The bravest feelings dumb? We had one minute at the gate, Before the others came; To-morrow it would be too late, And whose would be the blame! I gazed at her, she glanced at me; Alas! the time sped by: "How warm it is to-day!" said she; "It looks like rain," said I. |