by Emily Dickinson
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 into separate drawers
Until their time befalls.
If only centuries delayed
I'd count them on my hand
Subtracting 'till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen's land
If certain when this life was out
That yours and mine should be
I'd toss life yonder like a rind
And taste eternity.
But now all ignorant of length,
Of times uncertain wing,
It goads me like the goblin bee
That will not state its sting!
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