TO MY LITTLE BLANID.
I TOLD her a story, a fairy story,
My little daughter with eyes of blue.
And with clear, wide gaze as the splendors brightened,
She always asked me—"Oh, is it true?"
Always that word when the wonder reached her,
The pictured beauty so grand and new—
When the good were paid and the evil punished.
Still, with soft insistance—"Oh, is it true?"
Ah, late, drear knowledge from sin and sorrow,
How will you answer and answer true,
Her wistful doubt of the happy ending?—
Wise child! I wondered how much she knew.
WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF KEATS.
A GOD-LIKE face, with human love and will
And tender fancy traced in every line:
A god-like face, but oh, how human still!
Dear Keats, who love the gods their love is thine.