William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962). Anthology of Massachusetts Poets. 1922.

Miss Doane

MISS DOANE was sixty, probably;

She rented third floor room

That opened on an airshaft full

Of cooking smells and gloom.

She worked in philanthropic man’s

Well-known department store;

Cashiered in basement, hot and close,

For forty years or more.

Each night when she came home she’d stand

A moment in the hall,

Before she went into her room

With low and tender call.

And often I would hear her voice

Repeat a childish prayer;

Or read some old, old fairy tale

Of Princess, grand and fair.

One night I went to visit her

And spied, in little chair

A 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 so

A child to call my own.”

Each night I heard her softly sing

A childish lullaby;

But once, and just before she died,

I heard her cry and cry!