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.

- emily dickinson