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.