The Post

In early morn when roads are bare and still

And every cottage yet in slumber lies,

When the night dews are heavy on the grass

And daylight slowly widens on the hill ;

Ere any wisp of smoke from rooftops rise,

And all the air is clear as new-spun glass ;

Along the street beside the infant rill

Whose waters are fresh from Paradise,

The measured footsteps from the postman pass,

As he goes his first duty to fulfil.

To him is trusted all the hopes and fears

Enshrined in messages from loving hearts

At home, to those afar in foreign parts ;

He the custodian of man’s joys and tears.

 

Weekly Times     2.3.62