If you were coming in the Fall,
I’d brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I’d wind the months in balls
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse
If only Centuries, delayed,
I’d count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman’s Land.
If certain, when this life was out
That yours and mine, should be
I’d toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity
But, now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee
That will not state its sting.