Samuel Hoffenstein’s speaker addresses a beloved with a cascade of grand, comforting names: mate, friend, love, life, wife, comrade, star, solace, balm, refuge, calm. The list is so lavish it becomes slightly comic, especially when he calls the person his “prophylaxis” against troubles plaguing his liver, purse, and lungs. For a moment, it sounds like an old-fashioned, full-hearted tribute.
Then the final line deflates the romance: “My all — if you were ever home!” The speaker clearly feels deep affection, but also loneliness and mild exasperation. The beloved is absent so often that all those promises of comfort remain mostly hypothetical. The mood is wry and tender rather than angry—a fond grumble at someone loved completely but rarely around.