原詩：
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, til 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.
理解：If you were coming back to me in the fall, or autumn, then I could happily endure the summer while I wait for you, and it would pass in no time, knowing that I would see you again when autumn comes. That short summer’s wait would be no more bothersome to me than a fly to a housewife, who simply swats it away. Similarly, if I could see you in a year’s time, I’d be happy to cross the months off between now and then and wait patiently for next year to come. Even if I had to wait centuries, I would patiently do so, counting off the years until my fingers rotted and dropped off my hands, falling all the way down to the other end of the world (‘Van Diemen’s Land’ is the old name for Tasmania). If I could be certain that when we two died, we would be reunited in the afterlife for eternity, that wouldn’t be a problem – I would simply toss my life aside, like the peeled rind of a fruit, and head for eternity.
But with that final stanza, announced by ‘But’, there comes the twist, the rub, the truth: the speaker cannot be sure of when she will see her beloved again, and instead time goads her, buzzing like a Goblin Bee that hovers around you, threatening to sting you, but not telling you when it will do so.
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