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.
Edward Rowland Sill, 1841–1887