Deformed

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.