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 splendours brightened,
She always asked me—'Oh, is it true?'
Always that word when the wonder reached her,
She pictured beauty so grand and new —
When the good were paid and the evil punished,
Still, with soft insistence—'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.