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 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,
As 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
?
Rudyard Kipling