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.