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.”

Ineffable 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

The summers and the snows

Of scarce five years of baby life.

And yet she knows-she knows.

Just as a puppy of the pack

Knows unheard huntsman’s call,

And knows it is a running hound

Before it learns to crawl.

Just as she knew, when hardly born,

The breast unseen before,

And knew-how well!-before they touched,

What milk and mouth were for.

So, by some mystic extra-sense

Denied to eyes and ears,

Her spirit communes with its own

Beyond the veil of years.

She hears unechoing footsteps run

On floors she never trod,

Sees lineaments invisible

As is the face of God-

Forms she can recognise and greet,

Though wholly hid from me.

Alas! a treasure that is not,

And that may never be.

The majesty of motherhood

Sits on her baby brow;

Before her little three-legged throne

My grizzled head must bow.

That dingy bundle in her arms

Symbols immortal things-

A heritage, by right divine,

Beyond the claims of kings.

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Poems in English 

• Essay on Man poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• Epistles to Several Persons: Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• Epistles to Several Persons: Epistle IV, To Richard Boyle, poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• Epistle II: To A Lady (Of the Characters of Women) poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which I Gave to His Royal Highness poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• Eloisa to Abelard poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• Couplets on Wit poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• Argus poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• An Essay on Man in Four Epistles: Epistle 1 poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• An Essay On Criticism poem – Alexander Pope by Alexander Pope
• The Rape of the Lock: Canto 4 poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster by Poetry In English
• The Rape of the Lock: Canto 3 poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster by Poetry In English
• The Rape of the Lock: Canto 2 poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster by Poetry In English
• The Rape of the Lock: Canto 1 poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster by Poetry In English
• The Rape of the Lock poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster by Poetry In English
• The Iliad: Book VI (excerpt) poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster by Poetry In English
• The Dying Christian to His Soul poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster by Poetry In English
• The Three Gentle Shepherds poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster by Poetry In English
• The Temple of Fame poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster by Poetry In English

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Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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