A Wife In London

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, <br \> The postman nears and goes: <br \> A letter is brought whose lines disclose <br \> By the firelight flicker <br \> His hand, whom the worm now knows:<br \> <br \> Fresh--firm--penned in highest feather-- <br \> Page-full of his hoped return, <br \> And of home-planned jaunts of brake and burn <br \> In the summer weather, <br \> And of new love that they would learn.