A Wife in London
Thomas Hardy
1840 to 1928
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December 1899
She sits in the tawny vapour
That Thames-side lanes have uprolled,
Behind whose webby fold-on-fold
Like waning taper
The street-lamp glimmers cold.
A messenger's knock smartly,
Flashed news in her hand
Of meaning it to understand
Though shaped so shortly:
He—he has fallen—in far South Land…
'Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker,
The postman nears and goes:
A letter is brought lines disclose
By the firelight flicker
His hand, whom worm now knows:
Fresh—firm—penned in highest feather—
Page-full of hoped return,
And of home-planned jaunts of brake and
In the summer weather,
And of new love that would learn.
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