'Twas just this time, last year, I died

I thought how yellow it would look —

When Richard went to mill —

And then, I wanted to get out,

But something held my will.

I thought just how Red — Apples wedged

The Stubble's joints between —

And the Carts stooping round the fields

To take the Pumpkins in —

I wondered which would miss me, least,

And when Thanksgiving, came,

If Father'd multiply the plates —

To make an even Sum —

And would it blur the Christmas glee

My Stocking hang too high

For any Santa Claus to reach

The Altitude of me —

But this sort, grieved myself,

And so, I thought the other way,

How just this time, some perfect year —

Themself, should come to me —