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-'Oh, is it true?'
Always that word when the wonder reached her,
She pictured beauty so grand and new -
When the good were paid and the evil punished,
Still, with soft insistent-'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? -
Wise child! I wondered how much she knew.