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.