If you were coming in the Fall,I'd brush the Summer byWith 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 droppedInto 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 tastetastetake Eternity --But, now, uncertain of the lengthOf this, that is between,It goads me, like the Goblin Bee --That will not state -- it's sting.