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.
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The poem is Colin's fault! Quickie, I ran very late this evening trying to fix the printer after the Katniss jammed the buttons and looking up stupid things, so I didn't get anything done that I intended because we were all the while catching up on Orphan Black and watching the WWII movie-propaganda movie Their Finest, both of which were excellent.
Before that, we had dinner with my parents at Panera because they had discovered that there were lobster rolls on the menu and had heard that Paul was deprived of one last week when Not Your Average Joe's ran out of lobster even though we specifically went there so he could have one. Adam came with us for dinner, then went out with friends.
The early part of my day was uneventful -- chores, work, more of which must get done tomorrow! Here is the aforementioned Face Of Evil, with her sister and one of her friends, looking innocent:
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