Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ONLY DOLL IN THE VALLEY, by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ONLY DOLL IN THE VALLEY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Up near the sources of po
Last Line: For the girls in every valley.
Subject(s): Girls; Italy; Italians


I

Up near the sources of Po,
Where the lakes reflect the snow
And Italy touches heaven,
There's a little girl of seven,
A cara bella figlia,
With the tinkling name of Ottilia:
Hair like the blue-black night,
And a brown, pomegranate skin,
And a joy, to the sun akin,
That war has failed to blight.
She lives in a little alley
Of stone, near the big casino,
And against her gown of merino,
Sewed up like the good Bambino,
She carries a rare delight --
The only doll in the valley.

II

What matter the numberless cracks
In its little noddle of wax,
Or that one eye from its socket
Lies in Ottilia's pocket? --
That kisses have worn the paint
Till the red of the lips is faint?
For this is the children's saint,
And all the girls in Bezzecca
Flock to Ottilia's alley
As the Moslems flock to Mecca.
And she with a heart of gold
Lends them the doll to hold;
And, of all the wistful eyes,
Which speak of the greater lack --
Hers who begs for the prize,
Or hers who gives it back?
Oh, yes, they have other needs,
Those patient waifs of war --
Victims of noble deeds
In regions near or far
Done by their gallant sires,
Long sworn at Freedom's fires:
Milk? -- they've forgotten its look!
Shoes? -- but the clogs are strong.
Coal? -- ah, there's little to cook,
And the winter nights are long.
So when the peasants appear
In search of some common cheer
At the scanty market rally
Of the Val de Ledro drear,
What pleasure for the girls
To be for an hour beguiled
By the cheeks and the flaxen curls
Of Ottilia's foster-child --
The only doll in the valley!

III

Children, rich with the spoil
Of many a Christmas gone,
Who know neither hunger nor toil
And revel in lace and lawn:
Girls of America! think
Of the debt that your country owes
To the little dark daughters of those
Who fought for us and fell
On the frozen mountain brink,
Or the hot Venetian plain,
In the homesick sound of the vesper bell,
Their loss your children's children's gain.
From the corner where you keep
Your cradled pets asleep,
Give, for the friends of Ottilia,
Your favorite "Mimi" or "Sally";
And if on the ocean it misses
The warmth of your bed-time kisses,
It will find no lack of others
From Italy's little mothers.
Give, till from Trent to Sicilia
There shall be some cheer through the winter drear
For the girls in every valley.





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