Only In Sleep.
Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.
Only in sleep Time is forgotten —
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.
The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild —
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I too a child?
By Sara Teasdale
Artist Wendy Mould
Text and image source: Snowwolfs Woodland Nook https://www.facebook.com/531188960392510/posts/1792696457575081/