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December 1899

I 

She sits in the tawny vapour 
That the Thames-side lanes have uprolled, 
Behind whose webby fold-on-fold 
Like a waning taper 
The street-lamp glimmers cold.

A messenger's knock cracks smartly, 
Flashed news in her hand 
Of meaning it dazes to understand 
Though shaped so shortly: 
He--he has fallen--in the far South Land...

II

'Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker, 
The postman nears and goes: 
A letter is brought whose lines disclose 
By the firelight flicker 
His hand, whom the worm now knows:

Fresh--firm--penned in highest feather-- 
Page-full of his hoped return, 
And of home-planned jaunts of brake and burn 
In the summer weather, 
And of new love that they would learn. 

Added: 25 Feb 2002 | Last Read: 12 Sep 2026 3:51 AM | Viewed: 11008 times

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