TRIUMPH

Tomorrow he'd be off again to Blighty;
The lonesomeness is on him now: the blush

Of freedom drained, ahead, the train's slow rush
To the boat, and to the gas works over the sea.
He'd walked the town, and talked and talked, been free
With drink, and talked and talked, dressed up in blue-
Suit English affluence; he'd quarreled too.
With Del'a, maybe, certainly with Minnie.
And now, beside the low-barred fire he lingers,
Crooning: his cracking, tuneless voice is hoarse
With feeling; urging me: "Sing!" Distressed, morose:
Surprised, slow tears come down behind my fingers.
In triumph, Oedipus also knows remorse,
And sometimes loves the one he finds adverse.