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...FACADE: 22. ALONE by EDITH SITWELL CONSCIENCE AND REMORSE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS by ROBERT HERRICK LINES TO CASTE by SAMUEL ALFRED BEADLE A LAMENT by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 20 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |