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--Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.Yet, when the signs of summer
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