by Robert Graves

He had done for her all that a man could,
And, some might say, more than a man should,
Then was ever a flame so recklessly blown out
Or a last goodbye so negligent as this?
'I will write to you,'she muttered briefly,
Tilting her cheek for a polite kiss;
Then walked away, nor ever turned about...

Long letters written and mailed in her own head--
There are no mails in a city of the dead.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.