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 your’s 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。