HOWEVER enigmatic Emily Dickinson may often seem, this surely is an achingly felt love poem?

Note her idiosyncratic way with dashes.

IF YOU WERE COMING IN THE FALL

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, till 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.