February 23, 2005

By Emily Dickinson

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.

Who'd dare write poetry under the shadow of something like this?

4 comments:

First Rain said...

Who'd dare comment on it either!

Quite indescribable...whatever it is that poem evokes.

SPECKLED_BAND said...

You keep good company, 'spillz! And it shows in your own verse!

Ash said...

Cool, a fellow Dickinson fan !
hadnt read that one before, but it sure is going in my list of favorites.
Have you read this one ?

Anonymous said...

Indeed! I've stopped pretending. :)

_ Not Here anymore Tic