Miss Not The Occasion: By The Forelock Take That Subtile Power, The Never-Halting Time, Lest A Mere Moment'S Putting-Off Should Make Mischance Almost As Heavy As A Crime. "Wait, Prithee, Wait!" This Answer Lesbia Threw Forth To Her Dove, And Took No Further Heed; Her Eye Was Busy, While Her Fingers Flew Across The Harp, With Soul-Engrossing Speed; But From That Bondage When Her Thoughts Were Freed She Rose, And Toward The Close-Shut Casement Drew, Whence The Poor Unregarded Favourite, True To Old Affections, Had Been Heard To Plead With Flapping Wing For Entrance. What A Shriek! Forced From That Voice So Lately Tuned To A Strain Of Harmony! A Shriek Of Terror, Pain, And Self-Reproach! For, From Aloft, A Kite Pounced, And The Dove, Which From Its Ruthless Beak She Could Not Rescue, Perished In Her Sight!