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Long After

The little smoke-black steamer, wet with spray,
You went aboard, bound for England, home
And Blighty . . . The screws were churning up white foam
As you stood shivering on deck, she in a cloak
That clung wetly to her shoulders--the colour of dirt
Or mourning--and the hat, battered straw,
Without a ribbon or a feather, that,
If she were rich, she would throw away;
That she must wear and wear until it's dust
Or she is. Round her neck she wore
The handkerchief with which she waved goodbye for good.