White Nights - Alan Jenkins - Bog

Long After The little smoke-black steamer, wet with spray, You went aboard, bound for England, homeAnd Blighty . . . The screws were churning up white foamAs you stood shivering on deck, she in a cloakThat clung wetly to her shoulders--the colour of dirtOr 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 dustOr she is. Round her neck she wore The handkerchief with which she waved goodbye for good.