Deformed

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Title:     Deformed
Author: James Whitcomb Riley [More Titles by Riley]

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.

[The end]
James Whitcomb Riley's poem: Deformed

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