The moonlight touched the sombre waters white. <br />Beneath the bridge 'twas darker. Was she cold? <br />She shivered. Her poor shawl was worn and old, <br />And she was desolate, and it was night. <br />The slow canal crept onward; to her sight <br />It seemed to beckon, and the lapping told <br />Of rest and quiet sleep: how sweet to fold <br />The hands from toil and close the eyes from light, <br />And so shut out all memory, and go <br />There where men sleep, and dreams, perhaps, are not. <br />O never any dreams, she murmured; so, <br />Longing for sleep, the sleep that comes with death, <br />She fell, she felt the water, and forgot <br />All, save the drowning agony of breath.<br /><br />Arthur Symons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-abandoned-2/
