The Candle

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