A Wife in London
She sits in the tawny vapourThat the City lanes have uprolled,Behind whose webby fold on foldLike a waning taperThe street-lamp glimmers cold.
A messenger’s knock cracks smartly,Flashed news is in her handOf meaning it dazes to understandThough shaped so shortly:He—has fallen—in the far South Land . . .
THE IRONY
’Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker,The postman nears and goes:A letter is brought whose lines discloseBy the firelight flickerHis 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 burnIn the summer weather,And of new love that they would learn.
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