MISS DOANEMiss Doane was sixty, probably;She rented third floor roomThat opened on an airshaft fullOf cooking smells and gloom.She worked in philanthropic man’sWell-known department store;Cashiered in basement, hot and close,For forty years or more.Each night when she came home she’d standA moment in the hall,Before she went into her roomWith low and tender call.And often I would hear her voiceRepeat a childish prayer;Or read some old, old fairy taleOf Princess, grand and fair.One night I went to visit herAnd spied, in little chairA great wax doll, in dainty dress,And curls of flaxen hair.I praised the doll; its prettiness;Miss Doane said, “I’m alone.She comforts me. I wanted soA child to call my own.”Each night I heard her softly singA childish lullaby;But once, and just before she died,I heard her cry and cry!WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON
Miss Doane was sixty, probably;She rented third floor roomThat opened on an airshaft fullOf cooking smells and gloom.She worked in philanthropic man’sWell-known department store;Cashiered in basement, hot and close,For forty years or more.Each night when she came home she’d standA moment in the hall,Before she went into her roomWith low and tender call.And often I would hear her voiceRepeat a childish prayer;Or read some old, old fairy taleOf Princess, grand and fair.One night I went to visit herAnd spied, in little chairA great wax doll, in dainty dress,And curls of flaxen hair.I praised the doll; its prettiness;Miss Doane said, “I’m alone.She comforts me. I wanted soA child to call my own.”Each night I heard her softly singA childish lullaby;But once, and just before she died,I heard her cry and cry!
WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON