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.

Emily Dickinson, in 'The Complete Poems'

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