How Sick—to Wait—in Any Place—but Thine
by Emily Dickinson
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—