"Not a minute?" 

"Not a minute."

"Not even time for -" she paused. 

"For what?"

"Look."  

He bent his head forward suddenly, 

and she drew herself to him in the same moment,

her lips half open like a flower.

"Yes," he whispered into her lips.

"There's all the time in the world..."

All the time in the world - his life and hers.

But for an instant as he kissed her he knew 

that though he search through eternity

he could never recapture those lost April hours.

He might press her close now till

the muscles knotted on his arms - she was

something desirable and rare that he had fought

for and made his own - but never again

an intangible whisper in the dusk,

or on the breeze of night...

Well, let it pass, he thought; 

April is over, April is over.

There are all kinds of love

in the world, but never the same love twice.

Francis Scott Fitzgerald