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A LITTLE STORY
By Anne Reeve Aldrich
Alone, unwedded, past her prime,
Her faded face still wore a smile,
As if some secret, sweet and dear,
She knew, and brooded on the while-
Some hidden joy that kept life fair,
And lifted her above despair.
Ah me, you could not guess the dream
She cherished in her maiden heart,
Once to have voiced it would have been
To make her wintry life-blood start
Up, till the wrinkled cheeks aflame
Glowed with virgin's piteous shame.
Long years ago she loved, and then-
Who knows? - he died, or proved untrue,
And so she lived a maiden still.
He never wed who rode to woo
Through soft spring mornings long ago,
And Time had blurred her ancient woe.
But when the day was sunk in night,
Close by the embers of her fire
She sat and rocked, and to herself
Feigned that she had her hearts's desire.
'T was then that on her withered breast
a little dream-child took its rest.
How sweet to raise a quavering voice,
And sing a tender lullaby;
To feel its head against her neck,
And softly soothe its noiseless cry!
It made her life so bright and glad-
That little child she might have had!
Her heart was full of motherhood;
Its yearnings all had been denied.
She fed its hunger with a dream,
And smiled when others might have sighed;
And in the little dream-child's face
A likeness vague she loved to trace.
Nay, do not smile: our dreams are coarse,
Of gold or fame we could not win,
Hers was divine; I love to think
Of that bent figure, worn and thin,
By flickering firelight, wholly blest,
Holding her dream-child on her breast.
I think in wondrous Heaven, where
The good God makes our hopes come true,
He may give back my love to me,
He may give back your youth to you.
But for that maiden undefiled
I know he has a little child.
