By my bed, on a little round table <br />The Grandmother placed a candle. <br />She gave me three kisses telling me they were three <br /> dreams <br />And tucked me in just where I loved being tucked. <br />Then she went out of the room and the door was shut. <br />I lay still, waiting for my three dreams to talk; <br />But they were silent. <br />Suddenly I remember giving her three kisses back. <br />Perhaps, by mistake, I had given my three little <br /> dreams <br />I sat up in bed. <br />The room grew big, oh, bigger far than a church. <br />The wardrobe, quite by itself, as big as a house. <br />And the jug on the washstand smiled at me: <br />It was not a friendly smile. <br />I looked at the basket-chair where my clothes lay <br /> folded: <br />The chair gave a creak as though it were listening <br /> for something. <br />Perhaps it was coming alive and going to dress in <br /> my clothes. <br />But the awful thing was the window: <br />I could not think what was outside. <br />No tree to be seen, I was sure, <br />No nice little plant or friendly pebbly path. <br />Why did she pull the blind down every night? <br />It was better to know. <br />I crunched my teeth and crept out of bed, <br />I peeped through a slit of the blind. <br />There was nothing at all to be seen. <br />But hundreds of friendly candles all over the sky <br />In remembrance of frightened children. <br />I went back to bed... <br />The three dreams started singing a little song.<br /><br />Katherine Mansfield<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-candle-2/
