VI

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,

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 it yonder like a rind,

And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length

Of time’s uncertain wing,

It goads me, like the goblin bee,

That will not state its sting.