 | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
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 Lilian gives the last touch
To her robe, or the rose in her hair.
As I wait at the foot of the stair,
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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 not been six years my wife.
And do I like you? On my life,
You are eighteen, and not a day more,
And have not 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.
| The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |