Eleanor Farjeon (Элинор Фарджон)
A Child’s Fear
“Come to your poor old Mother,” she said Smiling, and gathered to her breast With her good hands her baby’s head; But the child’s eyes looked out oppressed. “Not old--not_ old--it isn’t true! Everyone may be old but you.” Old?--Old, you see, is much too near The half-imagined thing that takes Our Mothers where they do not hear Even when their baby wakes And cries for comfort in the gloom-- Babies to cry, and Mothers not come! Within the safe arms round her curled, “Oh,” she half sobbed, “I wish you’d be The youngest person in the world-- How old are you? not old?” begged she, And caught a little panting breath, Then lay quite still and thought of death.
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