D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). New Poems. 1916.

22. Embankment at Night, before the War

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.