Poems (Curwen)/The Postman
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.