How sick — to wait — in any place — but thine —

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How sick — to wait — in any place — but thine — by Emily Dickinson
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 —


Poetry by Emily Dickinson (edit list):
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