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?
—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.
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.
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.
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.