White Nights Poems

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.