by Helen Hunt Jackson
My brothers' ships sail out by night, by day;
My brothers' feet run merry on the shore,
They need not weep, believing they no more
Shall find the loved ones who have sailed away,
So frequent go their ships, to-morrow may
See one return for them.
The ship that bore
My loved from me lies where she lay before;
My heart grows sick within me as I pray
The silent skipper, morn by morn, if he
Will sail before the night.
With patient tread
I bear him all my goods. I cannot see
What more is left that could be stripped from me,
But still the silent skipper shakes his head:
Ah me! I think I never shall be dead!
Roberts Brothers, Boston