Poems (Jenkins)/The Letter
For works with similar titles, see Letter.
The Letter
SHE read the words of him that was her own:The dauntless brow that grief itself had steeled Quickened with listening ever, not in vain Amid brave stories of the stricken field, For strange, sad echoes from a child's heart grown Untimely old, that scarce will dance again This side the grave, but nathless keeps a leaven Of mirth most bitter sweet. So changed her face, 'twixt pride and sorrowing, As stirs and shadows sun-bleached wheat With winds that walk the stair of heaven And high clouds hovering.