A Wife In London

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.