By Emily Dickinson
Date: 24 December 1998

Poem 511

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,
Their numbers to recall.

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 - it's sting.