Poem – Memory 

Late, late last night, when the whole world slept,
Along to the garden of dreams I crept.

And I pulled the bell of an old, old house

Where the moon dipped down like a little white mouse.

I tapped the door and I tossed my head:

“Are you in, little girl? Are you in?” I said.

And while I waited and shook with cold

Through the door tripped me—just eight years old.

I looked so sweet with my pigtails down,

Tied up with a ribbon of dusky brown,

With a dimpled chin full of childish charme,

And my old black dolly asleep in my arms.

I sat me down when I saw myself,

And I told little tales of a moonland elf.

I laughed and sang as I used to do

When the world was ruled by Little Boy Blue.

Then I danced with a toss and a twirl

And said: “Now have you been a good, good girl?

Have you had much spanking since you were Me?

And does it feel fine to be twenty-three?”

I kissed me then, and I said farewell,

For I’ve earned more spanks than I dared to tell,

And Eight must never see Twenty-three

As she peeps through the door of Memory. 

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