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 she gives the last touch to her robe Or sets the white rose in her hair.

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.