(December, 1899)
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.
