He crushed the letter in his hand
And fed it to the driftwood flame.
As in a dream he sat and stared
At night’s black pall around us hung;
I would have spoken if I’d dared,
But silence had a gentler tongue.
He did not curse as men will do,
Of grief he gave no outward sign;
That bitter draught of myrrh and rue
He drank as though it had been wine.