An Untimely Thought
I WONDER what day of the week,—
I wonder what month of the year, —
Will it be midnight, or morning, —
And who will bend over my bier ?
I wonder what month of the year, —
Will it be midnight, or morning, —
And who will bend over my bier ?
— What a hideous fancy to come
As I wait, at the foot of the stair,
While Eleanor gives the last touch
To her robe, or the rose in her hair !
As I wait, at the foot of the stair,
While Eleanor gives the last touch
To her robe, or the rose in her hair !
Do I like your new dress — pompadour ?
And do I like you? On my life,
You are eighteen, and not a day more,
And have n’t been six years my wife !
And do I like you? On my life,
You are eighteen, and not a day more,
And have n’t been six years my wife !
Those two rosy boys in the crib
Up stairs are not ours, to be sure ! —
You are just a sweet bride in her bloom,
All sunshine, and snowy, and pure !
Up stairs are not ours, to be sure ! —
You are just a sweet bride in her bloom,
All sunshine, and snowy, and pure !
As the carriage rolls down the dark street
The little wife laughs and makes cheer —
But ... I wonder what day of the week,
I wonder what month of the year !
The little wife laughs and makes cheer —
But ... I wonder what day of the week,
I wonder what month of the year !
T. B. Aldrich.