Charity.

By the river

In the black wet night as the furtive rain slinks down,

Dropping and starting from sleep

Alone on a seat

A woman crouches.

I must go back to her.

I want to give her

Some money. Her hand slips out of the breast of her gown

Asleep. My fingers creep

Carefully over the sweet

Thumb-mound, into the palm’s deep pouches.

So, the gift!

God, how she starts!

And looks at me, and looks in the palm of her hand!

And again at me!

I turn and run

Down the Embankment, run for my life.

But why?—why?

Because of my heart’s

Beating like sobs, I come to myself, and stand

In the street spilled over splendidly

With wet, flat lights. What I’ve done

I know not, my soul is in strife.

The touch was on the quick. I want to forget.