Huckleberries perhaps, or clusters of spicy currants—
Wished I might follow her and find out where she was going.
Wished I might follow her and find out where she was going.
I thought the road would lead somewhere to a tiny cottage
Guarded by huge sunflowers; behind its curtained windows
Would peer a wrinkled face perhaps of a kind godmother,
Perhaps of a wicked witch. And still, I wish I could follow
Guarded by huge sunflowers; behind its curtained windows
Would peer a wrinkled face perhaps of a kind godmother,
Perhaps of a wicked witch. And still, I wish I could follow
Follow and find it though the pinks and the tall sunflowers
Were scentless, all of glass, the curling smoke from the chimney
Would never rise with the wind, nor the stiff white curtains flutter,
Nor the witch-godmother leave her place beside the window.
Were scentless, all of glass, the curling smoke from the chimney
Would never rise with the wind, nor the stiff white curtains flutter,
Nor the witch-godmother leave her place beside the window.
In a world of painted glass there could be no deceiving,
Shadows of present or past or tricksome lights of the future,
Guileful curves to mislead, or hard, sharp angles to hurt me—
All should be bright and smooth and thin as the dreams of childhood.
Shadows of present or past or tricksome lights of the future,
Guileful curves to mislead, or hard, sharp angles to hurt me—
All should be bright and smooth and thin as the dreams of childhood.
[ 20 ]
