Reely's Poetry Blog

By Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)

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.