A Wife In London - Thomas Hardy (1899)
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 in her hand
Of meaning it dazes to understand
Though shaped so shortly:
He-- has fallen--in the far South Land. . .
'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 the 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 they would learn.