Emily Dickinson

How Sick to Wait in Any Place but Thine

poem 368

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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