BY the river In the black wet night as the furtive rain slinks down, Dropping and starting from sleep Alone on a seat A woman crouches. I must go back to her. I want to give her Some money. Her hand slips out of the breast of her gown Asleep. My fingers creep Carefully over the sweet Thumb-mound, into the palm's deep pouches. So, the gift! God, how she starts! And looks at me, and looks in the palm of her hand! And again at me! I turn and run Down the Embankment, run for my life. But why? -- why? Because of my heart's Beating like sobs, I come to myself, and stand In the street spilled over splendidly With wet, flat lights. What I've done I know not, my soul is in strife. The touch was on the quick. I want to forget. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SNOW-SHOWER by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT MORTAL JEALOUSY by PHILIP AYRES LIFE AND YOU by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN THE COVERT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN PASSION WEEK: FRIDAY by JOHN BYROM TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 4. AS THE GREEKS DREAMED by EDWARD CARPENTER |