A Child’s Fear
“COME to your poor old Mother,” she said
Smiling, and gathered to her breast
With her good hands her baby’s head;
But the child’s eyes looked out oppressed.
“Not old—not old—it isn’t true!
Everyone may be old but you.”
Old?—Old, you see, is much too near
The half-imagined thing that takes
Our Mothers where they do not hear
Even when their baby wakes
And cries for comfort in the gloom—
Babies to cry, and Mothers not come!
Within the safe arms round her curled,
“Oh,” she half sobbed, “I wish you’d be
The youngest person in the world—
How old are you? not old?” begged she,
And caught a little panting breath,
Then lay quite still and thought of death.