Break

I have to be away from here for a while.

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 Diemens 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, uncedrtain of the length Of this, that is between, It goads me, like the Goblin Bee – That will not state – its sting.                       Emily Dickinson