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—
