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Poem	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.
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