_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?_