Of death as here it roamed the happy earth.
Or else thy ship hath gained the happy isles
Which often, musing thou, hast thought to see
At sunset floating in a golden space
'Twixt sea and sky; and now thou/ feastest there
With crowned brows, and songs upon thy lips,

But wheresoe'er thy wandering back is led,
Bur little thinkst thou of the faithful wife,
Who seaward sits and waits for thy return,
For thou wert never cast in lover's mould,
And men at best have much to wean their hearts
From home, and from the fireside's placid joys,
Theirs are the schemes of warfare and adventure
And toiling voyages upon the sea,
Building of ships, and law, and merchandise,
All these are theirs; while in their empty homes
The women sit, and muse upon their love,
And wear their heart with waiting and their eyes
With gazing o'er the irresponsitive sea.

Edith Wharton.