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Ada Cambridge - An Old Doll
Work rating: Low

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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