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&mdash;'Oh, is it true?'

Always that word when the wonder reached her, She pictured beauty so grand and new &mdash; When the good were paid and the evil punished, Still, with soft insistence&mdash;'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? &mdash; Wise child! I wondered how much she knew.