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, it's sting.