What is a woman that you forsake her, |
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, |
To go with the old grey Widow-maker? |
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She has no house to lay a guest in - |
But one chill bed for all to rest in, |
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in. |
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She has no strong white arms to fold you, |
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you - |
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you. |
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Yet, when the signs of summer thicken, |
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken, |
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken - |
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Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters. |
You steal away to the lapping waters, |
And look at your ship in her winter-quarters. |
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You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables, |
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables - |
To pitch her sides and go over her cables. |
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Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow, |
And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow, |
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Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her, |
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, |
To go with the old grey Widow-maker? |