CROUCHED at the corner of the street She sits all day, with face too white And hands too wasted to be sweet In anybody's sight. Her form is shrunken, and a pair Of crutches leaning at her side Are crossed like homely hands in prayer At quiet eventide. Her eyes -- two lustrous, weary things -- Have learned a look that ever aches, Despite the ready jinglings The passer's penny makes. And, noting this, I pause and muse If any precious promise touch This heart that has so much to lose If dreaming overmuch -- And, in a vision, mistily Her future womanhood appears, -- A picture framed with agony And drenched with ceaseless tears -- Where never lover comes to claim The hand outheld so yearningly -- The laughing babe that lisps her name Is but a fantasy! And, brooding thus, all swift and wild A daring fancy, strangely sweet, Comes o'er me, that the crippled child That crouches at my feet -- Has found her head a resting-place Upon my shoulder, while my kiss Across the pallor of her face Leaves crimson trails of bliss. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WRITER'S JOURNAL: POSSESSION by BAYARD TAYLOR LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE by ALFRED TENNYSON JENNY WI' THE AIRN TEETH by ALEXANDER ANDERSON MODERN MOSES, OR 'MY POLICY' MAN by JAMES MADISON BELL NO CONTINUING CITY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN BEL M'ES QUAN LO VENS M'ALENA by ARNAUT DANIEL |