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
Huckleberries perhaps, or clusters of spicy currants—
Wished I might follow her and find out where she was going.
If she could ever speak, and what she had in her basket
Huckleberries perhaps, or clusters of spicy currants—
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.