(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts)

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—

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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—