Poems (Curwen)/The Postman

by Annie Isabel Curwen

The Postman.

He trudges on his daily round
 Through sunshine, storm, and rain,
The messenger of life and death,
 Of sorrow, loss, and gain.

We watch and wait with hopeful hearts,
 Longing for him to come;
But at his coming hope departs,
 Our singing lips are dumb.

He wakes us from our happy dreams,
 With his familiar knock;
And dreams dissolve, and castles fall
 And crumble at the shock.

And he goes whistling on his way
 Some other home to fill,
With joy and gladness, or, may be
 Grave fears of coming ill.

He brings the old folks news of bairns
 They love and yearn to see;
He brings the good wives tidings of
 Their dear lords far at sea,

And funny scrawls from little lads
 Away at school he bears
To mothers, whose dear anxious hearts
 Are always full of cares.

He is Love's envoy too, for he
 Bears many a missive sweet,
From youths to maidens, who rejoice
 To hear the postman's feet.

So day by day, and week by week,
 Throughout the year he goes,
Distributing now here, now there,
 Joys, sorrows, cares, and woes.

But buoyant hope is ever prone
 To cheer us in our sorrow;
So if the post bring ill to-day
 We'll hope for good to-morrow.