The
Bridge of Sighs
by Thomas Hood
One more Unfortunate |
Weary of breath, |
Rashly importunate, |
Gone to her death !
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Take her up tenderly, |
Lift her with care; |
Fashion’d so slenderly, |
Young, and so fair !
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Look at her garments |
Clinging like cerements; |
Whilst the wave constantly |
Drips from her clothing; |
Take her up instantly, |
Loving, not loathing.
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Touch her not scornfully; |
Think of her mournfully, |
Gently and humanly; |
Not of the stains of her― |
All that remains of her |
Now is pure womanly.
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Make no deep scrutiny |
Into her mutiny |
Rash and undutiful: |
Past all dishonour, |
Death has left on her |
Only the beautiful.
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Still, for all slips of hers, |
One of Eve’s family― |
Wipe those poor lips of hers |
Oozing so clammily.
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Loop up her tresses |
Escaped from the comb, |
Her fair auburn tresses; |
Whilst wonderment guesses |
Where was her home ?
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Who was her father ? |
Who was her mother ? |
Had she a sister ? |
Had she a brother ? |
Or was there a dearer one |
Still, and a nearer one |
Yet, than all others ?
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Alas ! for the rarity |
Of Christian charity |
Under the sun ! |
O ! it was pitiful ! |
Near a whole city full, |
Home she had none.
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Sisterly, brotherly, |
Fatherly, motherly |
Feelings had changed: |
Love, by harsh evidence, |
Thrown from its eminence, |
Even God’s providence |
Seeming estranged.
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Where the lamps quiver |
So far in the river, |
With many a light |
From window and casement, |
From garret to basement, |
She stood, with amazement, |
Houseless by night.
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The bleak wind of March |
Made her tremble and shiver; |
But not the dark arch, |
Or the black flowing river: |
Mad from life’s history, |
Glad to death’s mystery |
Swift to be hurl’d― |
Anywhere, anywhere |
Out of the world !
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In she plunged boldly, |
No matter how coldly |
The rough river ran, |
Over the brink of it, ― |
Picture it, think of it, |
Dissolute Man ! |
Lave in it, drink of it, |
Then, if you can !
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Take her up tenderly, |
Lift her with care; |
Fashion’d so slenderly, |
Young, and so fair !
|
Ere her limbs frigidly |
Stiffen too rigidly, |
Decently, kindly, |
Smooth and compose them; |
And her eyes, close them, |
Staring so blindly !
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Dreadfully staring |
Thro’ muddy impurity, |
As when with the daring |
Last look of despairing |
Fix’d on futurity.
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Perishing gloomily, |
Spurr’d by contumely, |
Cold inhumanity, |
Burning insanity, |
Into her rest. |
―Cross her hands humbly |
As if praying dumbly, |
Over her breast!
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Owning her weakness, |
Her evil behaviour, |
And leaving, with meekness, |
Her sins to her Saviour !
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Thomas Hood
| Classic Poems |
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[ I Remember, I Remember ] [ The Bridge of Sighs ] [ The Death Bed ] |
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