Emily Dickinson

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

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


Comments about How Sick—to Wait—in Any Place—but Thine by Emily Dickinson

  • Tapan M. Saren (4/23/2017 8:17:00 AM)


    Another good poem...... (Report) Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Zakir Hussain Haidary (1/10/2017 3:50:00 AM)


    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—
    (Report) Reply

Read all 2 comments »



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Read poems about / on: sick, pain, sea, alone, night



Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 1, 2004



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