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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Emily Dickinson

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson was an American poet. more…

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"How sick—to wait—in any place—but thine by Emily Dickinson" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2018. Web. 20 Aug. 2018. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/11714>.

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