Читать книгу The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches - Riley James Whitcomb - Страница 21

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.