How Sick—to Wait—in Any Place—but Thine

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How sick—to wait—in any place—but thine—
I knew last night—when someone tried to twine—
Thinking—perhaps—that I looked tired—or alone—
Or breaking—almost—with unspoken pain—

And I turned—ducal—
That right—was thine—
One port—suffices—for a Brig—like mine—

Ours be the tossing—wild though the sea—
Rather than a Mooring—unshared by thee.
Ours be the Cargo—unladed—here—
Rather than the "spicy isles—"
And thou—not there—

by Emily Dickinson

Comments (2)

Another good poem......
Ours be the tossing—wild though the sea— Rather than a Mooring—unshared by thee. Ours be the Cargo—unladed—here— Rather than the spicy isles— And thou—not there—