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 the time be fuse
If only Centuries, dalayed,
I'd count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman's Land.
If certain, when the life was out
That yours and mine, should be
I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And taste 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.