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.
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