. . .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 wildRead More