A LITTLE old woman before me Went slowly down the street, Walking as if aweary Were her feeble tottering feet. From under her old poke-bonnet I caught a gleam of snow, And her waving cap-string floated Like a pennon to and fro. In the folds of her rusty mantle, Sudden her footstep caught, And I sprang to keep her from falling With a touch as quick as thought. When, under the old poke-bonnet, I saw a winsome face, Framed in with the flaxen ringlets Of my wee daughter Grace. Mantle and cap together Dropped off at my very feet, And there stood the little fairy,— Beautiful, blushing, sweet. Will it be like this, I wonder, When at last we come to stand On the golden, gleaming pavement Of the blessed, blessèd land? Losing the rusty garments We wore in the years of Time, Shall our better selves spring backward Serene in a youth sublime? Instead of the shapes that hid us, And made us old and gray, Shall we get our child-hearts back again, With a brightness that will stay? I thought—and my little daughter Slipped her dimpled hand in mine. "I was only playing," she whispered, "That I was ninety-nine." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE EVENING STAR by WILLIAM BLAKE WOMEN AND ROSES by ROBERT BROWNING SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: BENJAMIN PANTIER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE COMING OF SPRING by NORA PERRY BISHOP BRUNO by ROBERT SOUTHEY |