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.
如果你秋天要来,
我会像温柔的主妇待苍蝇那般，
以浅浅的笑容和微微的排拒,
轻轻将夏日掸开。
若是你一年之后才来,
我就将每个月份都揉成球，
放在不同的抽屉里，
让它们一一点过。
假如仅仅是要耽搁数个世纪,
我便把他们放在掌心细数,
变少, 变少, 直到手指都垂下,
落在蛮夷之地。
倘若我们注定在生命之后相遇，
我会挥掷生命同果皮，
以品尝永恒的甜蜜。
但现在一切都属于未知，
这之间等待的困扰，
如一只伺机的蜜蜂，
迟迟不肯刺痛我。