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Description
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.
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.
Reviews