Page:The Dial (Volume 68).djvu/547

You would not believe there could be flesh
In his stiff and heavy goloshes;
His sleeves are short and show his wrists
Where the bone makes a red knob,
And he looks the way a whipped beast looks,
Fixedly into space.

He eats his bread slowly
Because his teeth are worn down
And it hurts him to drink
Because sorrow is choking him.

When he has finished,
He hesitates, then timidly
Goes and seats himself for a little
On one side of the fire.

His chapped hands clasp
The hard ridges of his knees.
His head bends and pulls at his neck,
And his eyes are afraid of space.

And his woe sets him dreaming, dreaming,
Weighing at the nape of his neck and weighing on brow,
Making lines one by one on his face,
While there comes from the fire, small, distinct,
A sound like the crying of a new-born child far-off.

And then a little girl whom he has not seen
Slips from a corner where she was sitting,
A delicate and pretty little girl.

She has the eyes of a woman,
Eyes which suddenly enlarge with tears.

And see how softly she comes
And leans against his hand
The young flesh of her lips
And then lifts to him her eyes full of tears