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.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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