Read more poems by Emily Dickinson: Emily Dickinson Poems at Poetry X.
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, 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.
Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 27 Jun 2016 9:53 PM | Viewed: 19391 times
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