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.

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