White Nights

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.