A Wife in London

I - The Tragedy 

She sits in the tawny vapour 

   That the City 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 is in her hand 

   Of meaning it dazes to understand 

Though shaped so shortly: 

   He - has fallen - in the far South Land . . . 

II - The Irony 

'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 by brake and burn 

In the summer weather, 

   And of new love that they would learn.

-o0o-