An Old Doll
Low on her little stool she sits
To make a nursing lap,
And cares for nothing but the form
Her little arms enwrap.
With hairless skull that gapes apart,
A broken plaster ball,
One chipped glass eye that squints askew,
And ne'er a nose at all -
No raddle left on grimy cheek,
No mouth that one can see -
It scarce discloses, at a glance,
What it was meant to be.
But something in the simple scheme
As it extends below
(It is the 'tidy' from my chair
That she is rumpling so) -
A certain folding of the stuff
That winds the thing about
(But still permits the sawdust gore
To trickle down and out) -
The way it curves around her waist,
On little knees outspread -
Implies a body frail and dear,
Whence one infers a head.
She rocks the scarecrow to and fro,
With croonings soft and deep,
A lullaby designed to hush
The bunch of rags to sleep.
I ask what rubbish has she there.
'My dolly,' she replies,
But tone and smile and gesture say,
'My angel from the skies.'
Inefflable the look of love
Cast on the hideous blur
That somehow means a precious face,
Most beautiful, to her.
The deftness and the tenderness
Of her caressing hands . . . . . .
How can she possibly divine
For what the creature stands?
Herself a nurseling, that has seen
[...] Read more
poem by Ada Cambridge
Added by Poetry Lover
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