C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Country Letter-Carrier

From ‘Songs of Toil’: Translation of John Eliot Bowen

IT thaws. On field and roadway the packing drifts have faded;

The service-berry drips, and the slush is deep and stale;

The clouds hang low and leaden; the evening glow is pale;

The paths gleam like a brooklet, whose bed is all unshaded.

Along the highway trudges a messenger; unaided,

He limps and halts and shivers; his bag holds little mail—

A single wretched letter all crumpled, old, and frail—

He must push on; the village he nears now, lame and jaded.

He knocks. A timid woman admits him: “Till now, never

Had I a letter! Heavens! My boy! Quick, give it here!

He’s coming! Now we’re happy!” Her aged muscles quiver:

“God sent you here. Be seated and warm yourself; come near:

A share of my possessions are yours to keep forever.”

The postman limps no longer, warmed by the woman’s cheer.