1 There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate, And a wealthy wife is she; She breeds a breed o’ rovin’ men And casts them over sea. 2 And some are drowned in deep water, And some in sight o’ shore, And word goes back to the weary wife And ever she sends more. 3 For since that wife had gate or gear, Or hearth or garth or bield, She willed her sons to the white harvest, And that is a bitter yield. 4 She wills her sons to the wet ploughing, To ride the horse of tree, And syne her sons come back again Far-spent from out the sea. 5 The good wife’s sons come home again With little into their hands, But the lore of men that ha’ dealt with men In the new and naked lands; 6 But the faith of men that ha’ brothered men By more than easy breath, And the eyes o’ men that ha’ read wi’ men In the open books of death. 7 Rich are they, rich in wonders seen, But poor in the goods o’ men; So what they ha’ got by the skin o’ their teeth They sell for their teeth again. 8 For whether they lose to the naked life Or win to their hearts’ desire, They tell it all to the weary wife That nods beside the fire. 9 Her hearth is wide to every wind That makes the white ash spin; And tide and tide and ’tween the tides Her sons go out and in; 10 (Out with great mirth that do desire Hazard of trackless ways— In with content to wait their watch And warm before the blaze); 11 And some return by failing light, And some in waking dream, For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts That ride the rough roof-beam. 12 Home, they come home from all the ports, The living and the dead; The good wife’s sons come home again For her blessing on their head!
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