It was evening.

He chanced to be passing the stile,
Wherein the dogroses blow;
She chanced to be picking the roses the while,
What then? Why of course they encountered, you smile.
It happened by chance, you know.

She held in her hand the rare four-leavèd clover
That chanced by the stile to grow;
They say ’tis a sign of meeting your lover,
But the lucky old days of the fairies are over,
And it happened by chance, you know.

Of course the old tale is worth less than a puff
Of the lightest of Zephyrs; but oh!
If she could believe there were truth in the stuff,
And he could confirm her impressions – enough!
It happened by chance, you know.

Soft, softly the shadows around them fell,
As faded the evening’s bright glow;
And suppose that he lingered a tale to tell,
And suppose that she tarried to heaken it; well, well,
It happened by chance, you know.