_What is a woman that you forsake her,_
_And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,_
_To go with the old grey Widow-maker_?
_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._
_She has no strong white arms to fold you,_
_But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you_
_Bound on the rocks where the tide has rolled you._
_Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,_
_And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,_
_Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken—_
_Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters,_
_You steal away to the lapping waters,_
_And look at your ship in her winter quarters._
_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!_
_Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow:_
_And the sound of your oar-blades falling hollow,_
_Is all we have left through the months to follow!_
_Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her,_
_And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,_
_To go with the old grey Widow-maker?_