你我何时才能相聚，
这像毒蜂一样把我刺痛，
而它并未亮出它的毒刺。
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.