(December, 1899) 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.