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.
