How Sick-to Wait-in Any Place-but Thine
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—
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