THE OLD MIRROR
Up in Grandmother's room there hung such a queer old mirror—
The glass was blurred and streaked as by touch of unseen fingers,
The gilded frame was carved with rosettes and twisting ribbons,
And at the very top was set a curious painting.
The glass was blurred and streaked as by touch of unseen fingers,
The gilded frame was carved with rosettes and twisting ribbons,
And at the very top was set a curious painting.
It showed a little girl with her dark hair smoothly braided
Beside her rosy cheeks. She was wearing a dress of crimson,
Kerchief and snowy apron and buckled shoes. She carried
A basket on her arm and seemed to be slowly walking
Beside her rosy cheeks. She was wearing a dress of crimson,
Kerchief and snowy apron and buckled shoes. She carried
A basket on her arm and seemed to be slowly walking
Down an ochre-yellow road bordered with stiff green pine-trees
That hardly reached to her shoulder. Behind her glowed the sunset—
I used to think its hues like those of the luscious ices,
Strawberry, lemon, pistache we ate at children's parties.
That hardly reached to her shoulder. Behind her glowed the sunset—
I used to think its hues like those of the luscious ices,
Strawberry, lemon, pistache we ate at children's parties.
—Once, when I had been sick, I lay and watched her and wondered
If she could ever speak, and what she had in her basket
If she could ever speak, and what she had in her basket
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