If little seeds by slow degree
Put forth their leaves and flowers unheard,
Our love had grown into a tree,
And bloomed without a single word
I haply hit on six o'clock,
The hour her father came from town;
I gave his own peculiar knock,
And waited slyly, like a clown.
The door was open. There she stood,
Lifting her mouth's delicious brim.
How could I waste a thing so good!
I took the kiss she meant for him.
A moment on an awful brink--
Deep breath, a frown, a smile, a tear;
And then, "O Robert, don't you think
That that was rather--_cavalier_?" [_London Society._